THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


ANDIATOROCTE 


THE  EVE  OF  LADY  DAY  ON  LAKE  GEORGE 

AND    OTHER 

POEMS,    HYMNS,    AND   MEDITATIONS    IN 
VERSE 


BY 


THE  REV.  CLARENCE  A.  WALWORTH 

RECTOR  OF  ST.  MARY'S  CHURCH,  ALBANY,  N.  Y. 


NEW   YORK    AND   LONDON 

G.    P.    PUTNAM'S    SONS 
)regs 

1888 


COPYRIGHT  BY 

CLARENCE  A.  WALWORTH 


Press  of 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
New  York 


CONTENTS 


PS 
3/3? 

U/7  7  7<U 


PAGE 

ANDIATOROCTE  ;  OR,  THE  EVE  OF  LADY-DAY  ON  LAKE 

GEORGE 3 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

THE  ENGLISH  SPARROW      .  _ 45 

ETERNITY 53 

PICTURES  ON  THE  MANTEL 54 

TE  DEUM  LAUDAMUS 56 

CHILDREN  AT  THE  CRIB       .         .        .        .        .        -57 

THEREIN 58 

THE  SARATOGA  PINES 61 

WRETCHED  POVERTY 65 

LOVE  WITH  A  GUN      .......  67 

THE  DAYS  OF  GENESIS 69 

NIGHT  WATCHING 73 

THE  TRAMP 74 

THE  UNKNOWABLE 77 

LEAVE  TO  LOVE -79 

THE  IMMACULATE  CONCEPTION 84 

BEAUTY         .        .         • S6 

A  LETTER     .        .                 87 

TRUE  LOVE 90 

THE  CHRISTIAN  MUSE 91 

MUSA  EXTATICA 95 

THE  RATIONAL •               .  100 

MARANATHA         ........  102 

SCENES  AT  THE  HOLY  HOME 104 

THE  WINDIGO no 

PAPOOSE'S  FROLIC        .        .        .        .        .        .        .114 

ADORO  TE  DEVOTE 115 

DIES  IR^E  .        .116 


11255G5 


IV        •  CONTENTS. 


MID-LENT     .........  nS 

THE  GATHERING  OF  THE  GUILD         .        .         .        .120 

PARTING  OF  THE  GUILD       .        .        .        .        .         .121 

A  GRADUAL  PSALM      .......  122 

THE  DAILY  HOURS      .......  123 

THE  PRIESTLY  ROBE    .......  124 

MEDITATIONS  IN    VERSE 

THE  PROBLEM  OF  LIFE        ......  129 

THE  ONE  THING  NEEDFUL          .....  131 

OMNIA  AD  DEI  GLORIAM      ......  132 

THE  SALVATION  OF  THE  SOUL    .....  135 

THE  INSUFFICIENCY   OF  CREATURES    .        .         .        .136 

BOCHIM         .........  138 

ASH  WEDNESDAY          .......  142 

LIFE  BREAD          ........  144 

ONE  BY  ONE         ........  146 

SOLITUDE  AND  SILENCE        ......  148 

THE  FOLLOWING  OF  CHRIST        .....  149 

YESTERDAY  .........  150 

TO-DAY        .........  152 

TO-MORROW         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .153 

LOST  AND  FOUND         .......  155 

THE  WEDDING  GARMENT     ......  156 

A  CRY  FOR  A  HOME   .......  159 

TRUSTFUL  AND  SIMPLE  PRAYER  .....  160 

THE  KING  OF  HEARTS         ......  161 

THE  SPIRIT  TO  THE  CHURCHES  .....  163 

KING  DAVID'S  PENANCE       ......  165 

THE  RED  RIVER          .......  167 

GETHSEMANE         ........  168 

THE  CROWN  OF  THORNS     ......  171 

THE  PASSION  FLOWER         ......  174 

THE  BLEEDING  TREE  .......  176 

THE  INTERIOR  LIFE    .......  178 

CHRIST  LOST  AND  FOUND   ......  180 

RORATE  CCELI         ........  l8l 

PALM-SUNDAY       .        .        .....        .184 

THE  SONG  OF  SONGS  .......  185 

FEELING  IN  DEVOTION         ......  187 

ESCAPEMENT         ........  190 


CONTENTS.  V 

PAGE 

THE  SAME  OLD  TERMS 191 

OVERBOARD,  ALL          .        .        .        .        .        .         .192 

FAR  AND  NEAR 194 

REMEMBRANCE  OF  THE  DEAD 196 

DOMINUS  REGIT  ME    .......     ig8 

THE  COMMUNICANT 200 

REVELATIONS  OF  DIVINE  LOVE 

THE  LITTLENESS  OF  CREATION   .....     205 

SEEKING  AND  BEHOLDING 206 

JESUS  OUR  HEAVEN 208 

BENEDICITE  DOMINE    .        .        .        .         .         .        .210 

THE  ROYAL  DEBTOR 212 

GAME  AND  EARNEST .214 

JOY  AND  PAIN 217 

LOVE'S  GREATEST  PAIN 219 

How  IN  CHRIST'S  PASSION  ALL  SUFFER  .        .         .221 

GRADUS  AD  TRINITATEM ;  OR,  MEDITATIONS 
ON  THE  INNER  LIFE  OF  GOD 

THE  UNITY  OF  GOD  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  229 

THE  ACTIVE  LIFE  OF  GOD 230 

THE  WHOLE  LIFE-MOVEMENT  OF  GOD  ONE  ACT  .  231 
THOUGHT  AND  WILL  THE  CONSTITUENT  ELEMENTS 

OF  DIVINE  ACTION 233 

THE  CHARACTER  OF  A  DIVINE  THOUGHT  .  ^.  235 

MIND  AND  THOUGHT  DISTINCT  IN  ONE  LIFE  .  .  236 
THE  GENESIS  OF  LOVE  ;  OR,  THE  PROCESSION  OF  THE 

HOLY  GHOST 238 

ClRCUMINCESSION 239 

THE  HOMESTEAD  OF  THE  TRINITY    .  ..        .     241 

LOVE  DEALING  WITH  MYSTERY  .        .        .    "    '.        .     242 


ANDIATOROCTE 

OR, 

THE  EVE  OF   LADY-DAY  ON   LAKE  GEORGE. 


ANDIATOROCT&; 

OR, 

THE  EVE  OF  LADY-DAY  ON  LAKE  GEORGE. 


INTRODUCTION. 

All  secluded  by  its  trees 
From  the  world  it  would  forsake, 
Where  French  Mountain  bends  its  knees 
To  gaze  into  the  holy  lake 
Stands  a  quiet  convent,  bosomed 
On  a  breast  that  loves  it  well. 
Bosomed  in  the  craggy  hill, 
As  if  there  a  flower  had  blossomed 
From  the  bosom  of  the  hill. 
Scantily  the  trees  conceal  it, 
By  some  doubt,  or  timid  feeling, 
Half  unveiling,  half  concealing, 
In  a  mystery  they  reveal  it. 
They  but  form  a  gentle  eyelid 
Fringing  the  steep  terrace  there  ; 
And  the  convent,  half  beguiled, 
Half  retreating  back  to  prayer, 
Looking  over,  looking  under, 
(Saints,  forgive  all  worldly  wonder  !) 
3 


4  ANDIA  TOROCTE. 

Sees  Lake  George  stretched  far  and  near  ; 

Sees  the  water  pure  and  clear  ; 

Sees  reflected  to  her  eyes, 

From  its  bosom  clear  and  crystal, 

From  its  bosom  pure  and  vestal, 

Holy  legends  of  the  skies. 

Dear  St.  Mary's,  for  his  sake 
Who  first  named  the  Holy  Lake,1 
Christening  with  bleeding  finger 
Font  and  penitent  together, 
Ever  keep  thy  sweet  seclusion 
Free  from  secular  intrusion, 
Leaning  on  the  mountain's  breast, 
Smiling  there  in  trustful  rest, 
Nestling  in  the  wood  that  shields  thee, 
Smiling  to  the  sky  that  gilds  thee, 
Calmly  thoughtful,  calmly  blest. 

Ah  !  betimes  from  that  retreat, 
As  the  sun  sinks  down  to  rest, 
Throwing  kisses  from  the  west 
To  the  clouds,  't  is  passing  sweet 
To  watch  the  shadows  in  the  sky, 
To  watch  the  colors  come  and  break 
Like  blushes  on  a  maiden's  cheek, 
Pleased  but  disturbed  by  a  fond  eye. 
Will  you  listen  for  a  minute  ? 
Ere  my  rambling  verse  is  o'er 
I  will  sing  of  this  and  more, 
You  may  find  a  pleasure  in  it. 

1  Lake  George,  considered  by  the  aborigines  as  an  appen 
dage  to  Lake  Champlain,  and  by  them  called  Andiatorocte, 
or  The  Tail  of  the  Lake,  was  known  to  the  early  missionaries 
as  Lake  St.  Sacrament,  from  the  fact  that  Father  Isaac  Jogues 
baptized  many  savages  in  its  waters. 


ANDIA  TOROCTE.  5 

CANTO  I. 

[  Wherein  the  author  vindicates  his  native  land.] 

The  breath  of  August  fills  land,  lake,  and  sky. 

It  is  the  eve  of  Lady-Day.     Nature  knows  well, 

And  robes  with  scruple  for  the  festival. 

All  the  long  afternoon  the  clouds  hang  low 

In  banks  of  smoke,  or  woolly  balls  of  snow  ; 

Or  higher  up  stream  out  like  spirit  hair 

Combed  into  long  thin  tresses  by  the  air. 

And  witchingly  betimes  spots  of  the  bluest  blue 

Lie  dimpled  between  flocons  of  white  cloud. 

It  is  the  way  of  skies  to  show  more  true 

When  things  of  lower  nature  hide  in  shroud. 

'T  is  Heaven  speaks  now  ;  and  all  the  gloom  or 

glow 
Above  is  mirror'd  in  the  lake  below. 

Coquettish  nature  !     Whiles  the  placid  lake 
Changes  the  quaker  surface  of  her  cheek 
To  vexed  impatience,  as  the  saucy  wind 
Whispers  bold  nothings  to  her  maiden  mind. 
First,  all  is  "  yea  "  ;  then,  like  offended  prude, 
With  sudden  dignity  she  draws  her  hood, 
And  cloisters  her  sweet  face  behind  a  frown. 
And  the  land  too — how  proudly  are  displayed 
Its  jewels,  island,  mountain,  grove,  and  glade  ! 
(Trees  hide,  thank  God,  railroad,  hotel,  and  town.) 
Tea  Island  nestles  near  the  western  shore, 
With  strange  tales  of  long-buried  ore. 
Northward  lie  Diamond  Isle,  the  Sisters  Three  ; 
And,  hugging  close  Tongue  Mountain,  one  can  see 
Dome  Island's  round  back.     In  a  chain  hang  they  ; 


6  ANDIATOROCTE. 

Green  emeralds  on  the  neck  of  the  East  Bay 
They  lie.     At  first  the  nearest  seems  most  fair. 
But  gaze  awhile  ;  the  intermediate  air, 
Which  colors  distance  with  its  own  thin  hue, 
Will  show  it  soon,  less  overcast,  more  true, 
And  make  the  eye  more  lovingly  rest  there. 

I  've  gazed  on  many  a  lofty,  lovely  scene 
In  other  lands,  on  England's  oaks,  lawns,  gardening  ; 
Cathedrals  preaching  old  faith  o'er  again  ; 
On  Ben  Venue  and  An,  their  hard  brows  hardening 
Against  the  pleading  innocence  of  Loch  Katrine, 
As  Scotland's  iron  lords  frowned  on  the  sin 
Of  joyous  loveliness  in  Scotland's  queen. 
And  I  have  seen  Killarney's  mountains  tower 
Over  chained  lakes  below,  born  of  their  tears, 
Dreaming  that  haggard  want  can  carry  fears 
To  mammon,  or  sad  beauty  charm  its  power. 
I  Ve  seen  the  crystal  cones  of  Switzerland, 
Where  like  the  pinnacles  of  heaven  they  stand 
Above  the  clouds,  as  claiming  foothold  there, 
Naught  holding  from  the  earth,  sons  of  the  air. 
I  've  seen  the  blue  Danau,  the  Rhine,  the  Rhone, 
The  groves  of  Ceylon  breathing  o'er  the  waves, 
High  Fusiyama  lift  her  fluted  cone, 
Followed  the  sea  into  Bermuda's  caves, 
Walked  where  the  Gulf  Stream  crowds  the  Atlantic 

back 

Upon  the  strand  of  Florida  with  wave  and  wreck  ; 
But  near  or  far  naught  lovelier  I  know 
Than  the  fair  vision  sky  and  mountains  show 
To  sweet  St.  Mary's  leaning  o'er  the  lake. 

There  are  who  say  our  scenery,  though  fair, 
Is  mute  :  no  old  traditions  haunt  the  land  ; 


ANDIA  TOROCTE.  f 

That  hill,  cave,  cove,  wave,  grove,  and  strand 
Send  no  such  thrilling  echoes  through  the  air 
As  stir  the  soul  to  romance  on  the  Rhine, 
At  that  high  seat  whence  Roland  saw  the  earth 
Cast  on  his  love  below  at  Nonnenwerth  ; 
Or  where  the  ivy  on  the  Avon,  Thames,  or  Tyne, 
Circles  with  loving  arm  some  crumbling  wall ; 
Or  where  dim  Highland  wraiths  rise  from  the  mead, 
Or  mad  O'Donahoe  spurs  his  phantom  steed 
Across  Lough  Leane  into  a  rocky  stall. 
They  say,  while  every  hill,  or  vale,  or  shore 
In  Europe  breathes  with  memories  of  the  past, 
Our  land  alone,  dead  to  all  legendary  lore, 
All  the  more  barren  seems  for  that  "t  is  vast. 
Ah  !  they  belie  the  land.     Precious  and  rare 
Unfold  her  old  traditions  to  the  scholar's  care, 
And  poet's  tremulous  eye,  who  reverent  seek, 
Who  tread  her  woods  in  silence,  and  let  silence 
speak. 

Stranger  !    Here  lies  a  route  of  braves.    Algonquin 

bands 

By  this  shore  passed  to  ravage  Mohawk  lands, 
And  light  the  Hudson  with  the  fires  of  war  ; 
And  cheeks  grew  pale  in  fortified  Quebec, 
To  hear  of  Kaniongas  on  this  lake. 
A  song  like  this  was  carried  wide  and  far 
When  Agnie  councils  rose  with  blood  in  the  eye, 
And  Kryn,  or  Hendrick,  led  the  battle  cry. 

MOHAWK    WAR    SONG. 

Did  I  not  hear  the  drum  ? 
Hist !  Wyandots,  I  come. 
Wah-hee  !  Ho-ha  ! ' 

1  Wah-hee  means  in  French  Oui-da  ;  in  English  "This  is  how 
it  is."    The  singer  means  to  say  :  Here  I  am  to  speak  for  my- 


8  AND! A  TOROCTE. 

From  the  lodges  of  the  Oknaho 
The  wily  river  doth  creep, 
To  rush  at  Cohoes  with  a  leap 
Into  the  valley  below. 
So  leap  I  on  the  foe, 
Shouting  my  battle  song. 
To  battle  I  belong. 

Ho  !  Kanionkehaka  !  Ho  ! 
Wah-hee  !  Ho-ha  ! 

Quatoghies  sleep  !  close  every  eye. 
Are  these  doves  that  cleave  the  sky  ? 

Wah-hee  !  Ho-ha  ! 
Are  they  going  North  to  brood  ? 
No.     They  are  eagles  of  war  ; 
Konochioni  come  from  afar. 
Looking  for  eagles'  food. 
Dogs  !  I  am  thirsty.     Give  me  blood  ! 
Ha  !  keep  your  lodges  safe.     Ere  long 
I  '11  shake  them  with  a  Mohawk  song. 
Ho  !  Kanionkehaka  !  Ho  ! 
Wah-hee  !  Ho-ha  ! 

Comes  the  red  daylight  now, 
Strikes  the  earth  on  its  brow. 
Wah-hee  !     Ho-ha  ! 
So  come  I  like  fiery  day  ; 
I  come  with  a  lighted  brand  ; 
I  come  with  hatchet  in  my  hand, 
To  fall  upon  the  prey. 

self.  Kanionkehaka  is  the  name  by  which  the  Mohawks  des 
ignate  themselves.  The  Hurons  were  sometimes  called  Qua 
toghies,  sometimes  Wyandots.  The  Oknaho,  or  Mohawks  of 
the  Wolf  family,  occupied  the  banks  of  the  river  between 
Spraker's  Basin  and  Fort  Plain,  the  site  of  their  castle  fre 
quently  changing  between  these  points.  Niio,  or  Rawenniio, 
is  the  name  in  Iroquois  for  God. 


ANDIA  TOROCTE.  9 

My  body  I  cast  away. 
My  soul  is  strong, 
No  fear  is  in  my  song. 

Ho  !     Kanionkehaka  !     Ho  ! 
Wah-hee  !     Ho-ha  ! 

Brothers,  will  ye  shrink  and  fail  ? 
My  heart  is  eager  for  the  trail. 

Wah-hee  !     Ho-ha  ! 
Warriors,  I  am  a  full-grown  man. 
See  !  on  my  breast  I  wear 
The  teeth  and  claws  of  the  bear, 
The  totem  of  my  clan. 
Braves  that  saw  them  last  year  ran. 
Quatoghies  !     Am  I  wrong  ? 
I  '11  show  you  my  claws  again  ere  long. 
Ho  !     Kanionkehaka  !     Ho  ! 

Wah-hee  !     Ho-ha  ! 

The  trail  leads  northward — here  ! 
Cloudless  is  the  sky,  and  clear. 

Wah-hee  !     Ho-ha ! 
Merrily  smiles  the  great  Niio. 
For  every  blow  I  strike  in  the  post, 
I  will  send  a  screaming  ghost 
To  the  misty  lodges  below, 
Or  breathe  out  mine  to  the  foe. 
To  battle  I  belong, 
Hark,  Rawenniio,  to  my  song  ! 
Ho  !     Kanionkehaka  !     Ho  ! 

Wah-hee  !     Ho-ha  ! 

Behind  this  convent,  and  behind  the  hill, 
Far  eastward  stretches  out  a  level  plain 
Lovely  to  distant  view,  but  nearer  seen 
The  ground  is  low  and  wet  ;  Burgoyne  learned  it 
well. 


10  ANDIATOROCTE. 

Hapless  as  he,  Dieskau  at  an  earlier  day 

Led  from  the  north,  with  martial  fire  and  pride, 

His  French  and  Indians,  skirting  the  hill  side 

To  find  the  wiliest  and  the  nearest  way 

To  strike  the  English  garrison  in  yonder  fort. 

Its  ruins  once  were  picturesque  and  rare  ; 

But  now  in  shame  they  crouch  beneath  the  stare 

Of  diamonded  vulgarity,  and  lisping  sport, 

That  better  love  to  hear  the  steamer  snort. 

Oh,  I  remember  when  this  south  beach  here, 

Of  all  the  lake  shore,  lone  and  lovely  smiled. 

In  semicircle  true,  fond  arms  though  wild 

It  stretched  around  its  love  from  Caldwell  pier 

To  Crosby  side,  and  not  a  road,  or  fence,  or  ditch, 

Or  sign  of  tenement,  field,  plough,  or  spade, 

Or  human  meddling  marred  the  forest  shade, 

Or  scared  the  ripples  breaking  on  the  beach. 

A  sigh  for  thee,  O  disenchanted  shore, 

Thy  beauty  is  no  more  ! 

Well,  leave  we  there  the  desecrated  site. 

A  two-mile  walk  around  the  southern  knoll 

That  terminates  French  Hill,  leads  to  a  lonely  pool 

Strewed  with  pond-lilies  velveted  in  white, 

The  only  fragrant  things  that  care  to  stay 

Where  all  of  life  beside  preaches  decay. 

'T   is   said   that   these   are   prayers.      Here    they 

remain 

To  plead  for  the  unburied  soldiers  of  Dieskau, 
Who  sleep  unshriven  in  the  mould  below. 
No  requiem  had  they  ;  no  priestly  train, 
No  drops  of  holy  spray,  no  consecrated  rings 
Of  incense  rose  to  heaven.     But  there  are  wings 
That  beat  the  air  unseen,  and  subtle  strings 
That  intersect  the  earth  and  sea  like  wire, 
And  carry  secret  whispers  to  desire. 


ANDIA  TOROCTE.  1 1 

So  webbed  and  warped  is  life,  so  thought  is  knit 

with  things. 

Pray,  lilies,  pray  !  cease  not  to  intercede  ; 
Spread  your  green  pads,  turn  your  white  breasts  to 

heaven. 

Ah  !  who  can  know  when  prayers  outgrow  their  need  ? 
Ah  !  who  can  say  when  sin  is  all  forgiven  ? 

Hard  by  the  road  that  skirts  the  "  Bloody  Pond," 

A  granite  monument  records  the  name  1 

Of  one  who  fell  in  the  same  fray.     To  fame 

A  better  plea  among  the  Berkshire  hills  is  found, 

Where  past  twin  colleges  the  Housatonic  flows. 

A  little  farther  on,  grappling  with  foes, 

King  Hendrick,  mighty  Kanionga,  fell, 

In  war  most  brave,  at  council-fire  most  wise. 

Let  the  old  Ritual  of  the  League  reveal 

How  nations  mourn  when  a  true  patriot  dies. 

AN    IROQUOIS    DIRGE. 

I. 

Thus  our  brothers  go. 
Founders  of  the  League  of  Peace. 
Ye  who  blessed  it  to  increase, 
Listen  to  our  woe  ! 

Haih  !  haih  ! 
Our  bitter  woe. 

n. 

Fast  they  go  before. 
The  thickets  grow  anew 
Where  the  green  corn  grew 
That  grows  no  more. 

Haih  !  haih  ! 
That  grows  no  more. 
1  Col.  Ephraim  Williams,  founder  of  Williams  College. 


12  ANDIATOROCTE. 

III. 

Mute  are  they  and  still. 
Warriors  fall  like  falling  rain. 
They  are  gathered  in  like  grain 
From  the  lone  hill  ; 

Haih  !  haih  ! 
The  desert  hill. 

IV. 

Heavy  is  our  song. 
The  Long  Lodge  feels  the  north. 
From  flaming  hearth  to  hearth 
The  leap  is  long. 

Haih  !  haih  ! 
The  leap  is  long. 

v. 

O  king  of  war  and  pest  ! 
Across  the  deep  dark  gulf 
Thou  leapest  like  a  hungry  wolf 
To  seize  our  best ; 

Haih!  haih! 
Braves  and  best. 

VI. 

Under  the  hemlock  trees, 
That  bow  like  bowing  grief, 
Sits  the  widow  of  a  chief 
Hugging  her  knees  ; 
,  Haih  !  haih  ! 

Her  chilly  knees. 

VII. 

Her  heart  is  sore. 

She  thinks  of  her  helpless  brood. 


ANDIA  TOROCTE.  1 3 

Children  !  the  hand  that  brought  ye  food, 
Will  it  bring  more  ? 

Haih  !  haih  ! 
Will  it  bring  more  ? 

VIII. 

Nay,  wondering  eyes, 
More  ye  ask  than  grief  can  know  ; 
More  ye  seek  than  life  can  show, 
Were  ye  more  wise. 

Haih!  haih! 
Ah  !  who  is  wise  ? 

IX. 

Hollow  out  his  tomb. 
Seat  him  upright  in  the  grave. 
A  true  Konochione  brave 
Leaps  at  the  drum, 

Haih!  haih! 
The  signal  drum. 

x. 

Heap  his  sack  well. 
Shall  a  great  chieftain's  ghost 
For  want  of  flesh  or  corn  be  lost 
On  the  long  trail, 

Haih!  haih! 
The  weary  trail  ? 

XI. 

Give  him  knife  and  bow 
And  arrows.     What,  if  bound 
To  the  far  distant  hunting-ground, 
He  meet  a  foe, 
Haih !  haih  ! 
Some  prowling  foe  ! 


14  ANDIA  TOROCTE, 

XII. 

Hail !  grandsires,  hail ! 
Ye  built  our  cabin  long. 
Ye  made  our  union  strong. 
Say,  shall  it  fail  ? 

Haih!  haih  ! 
Shall  the  league  fail  ? 

XIII. 

Grandsires,  we  are  few. 

These  wampum  belts  in  hand,  ye  swore 

To  make  our  league  endure. 

Are  the  tokens  true  ? 

Haih  !  haih  ! 
And  we  so  few  ?• 

XIV. 

Hark  !  sires,  yet  stay. 
O  make  our  league  of  peace  remain, 
And  every  link  that  binds  the  chain  ! 
Though  chiefs  are  clay, 

Haih  !  haih ! 
And  pass  away. 

CANTO  II. 

\Some  Jottings  from  the  "Jesuit  Relations."] 

Seest  thou  where  Caldwell  lies  direct  in  line 
With  Prospect  Mountain  ?     Seest  thou  the  turn 
Where  opens  the  dark  valley  leading  from  Luzerne  ? 
Seest  thou  the  Abenaki  camp  like  moccasin 
Upon  the  mountain's  foot  ?     These  are  akin 
To  those  fierce  redskins  who  with  Montcalm  came 
To  storm  Fort  William  Henry,  and  to  their  leader's 
shame 


ANDIA  TOROCTE.  1 5 

Deluged  yon  terrace  with  their  prisoners'  blood. 
Beads  now  they  barter  where  the  old  fort  stood. 
Even  so  degenerate.     Vulgar  drink  to-day 
Avenges  life  once  shed  in  nobler  fray. 
Drop  now  thine  eye  to  yonder  pier  of  plank 
Where  idle  boats  dance  merrily  to  the  bank. 
Within  a  cove  of  that  same  shore  one  day 
A  light  canoe,  among  the  bushes  hid  away, 
Waited  the  coming  of  an  Indian  maid, 
A  fugitive,  dear  now  to  pious  fame, 
Who  sacrificed,  sweet  zealot,  all  to  Jesus'  name, 
And  northward  by  this  route  to  the  St.  Lawrence  fled. 
Would'st  know  the  legend  ?     Read  it  on  every  rock 
That  lines  this  lake.     The  terraced  banks  of  the 

Mohawk, 

From  Fonda  to  the  clattering  factory  town 
Where  the  choked  Choctanunda  plunges  down, 
Know  the  tale  well,  Galway  and  Middlegrove, 
Greenfield  and  Hadley,  and  the  mountain  clove 
Where  the  North  River  bursts  his  granite  bonds. 
Ask  freely  ;  from  land,  lake,  and  stream  echo  re 
sponds. 

TEGAKWfTA. 

O  Gandawaga  !  was  it  thou 
That,  peering  through  primeval  shade, 
Saw  the  first  life  dawn  on  the  brow 
Of  our  sweet  Kanionga  maid  ? 

Echo  !    Echo  ! 
If  it  be  really  truly  so. 
And  if  that  cherished  name  you  know, 
Was  it  Takwita  ? 

Ita.     Ita.1 

1  It  should  not  be  forgotten  that  this  echo  belongs  to  the 
Church  missionary  times,  and  that  "  Ita  "  in  Latin  means 
"  Yes." 


1 6  A  NDIA  TOROCTE. 

Oh  !  Kayadutta,  was  it  here, — 
Is  that  her  spring  above  the  road, 
And  did  its  water  pure  and  clear 
Give  the  dear  girl  new-born  to  God  ? 

Echo  !    Echo  ! 

Leap  these  two  centuries  like  a  doe, 
And  name  the  name  that  well  you  know. 
Was  it  Takwita  ? 

Ita.     Ita. 

Luzerne,  is  thine  the  mountain  pass 
Received  her  footprints  from  the  vale 
Where  creeps  the  Kayaderoseras  ? 
Saw  ye  her  uncle  on  the  trail  ? 

Echo  !     Echo ! 

Saw  ye  the  knife  and  wrathful  brow  ? 
Heard  ye  the  drip  of  a  canoe 
Speeding  Takwita  ? 

Ita.     Ita. 

Methinks  I  see  her  passing  now 
Along  yon  shore,  wrapt  in  the  shade 
Of  trees  that  from  the  bank  bend  low 
Their  boughs  to  screen  the  holy  maid. 

Echo  !     Echo ! 

Speak  my  name  softly  in  her  ear, 
And  say,  a  heart  that  holds  her  dear 
Signals  Takwita. 

Ita.     Ita. 

Saw  ye  the  great  St.  Lawrence  leap 
Like  panther  leaping  from  his  lair  ? 
Saw  ye  a  maiden  vigil  keep 
Upon  the  bank,  with  fast  and  prayer  ? 

Echo  !     Echo  ! 
Why  this  high  cross  and  lowly  mound  ? 


ANDIATOROCTE.  IJ 

Ends  the  trail  here  ?     Nay,  look  beyond. 
Heaven  holds  Takwita. 
Ita.     Ita. 

Will  you  go  farther  back  for  histories 
To  make  our  country  luminous  ?  Well,  such  abound  ; 
And  witchery  far  more  witching  here  is  found 
In  truthful  story  than  the  idle  mysteries 
Of  fable  yield.     The  Jesuit  "  Relations  "  tell 
How,  at  an  earlier  time,  seeking  for  foes, 
A  party  of  fierce  Iroquois  pushed  their  canoes 
Along  Lake  George,  Champlain,  the  sly  Sorel, 
The  broad  St.  Lawrence,  to  St.  Peter's  Lake. 
Fatal  mischance  it  was  that  then  and  there 
Brought  richest  life  and  treasure  to  their  snare. 
Twenty  canoes  came  freighted  from  Quebec 
With  Huron  braves  and  French,  a  Christian  fleet 
Returning  to  St.  Mary's  Mission  on  the  Wye.' 
Ah  !  many  found  high  mission  there — to  die  ; 
Some,  captives  in  the  Mohawk  villages,  to  meet 
Through  torture,  mutilation,  fire,  a  later  death, 
Calling  on  Jesus  with  their  latest  breath. 
Hail  !  sacred  lives,  to  faith  dear  evermore, 
Etienne  Totiri,  Thondatsaa,  Paul,  Theodore, 
Eustache  Aharistari,  Theond£choren,  and  his  niece, 
Teresa  Wyonhaton.     Couture,  long  a  thrall 
At  Teionontogen,  to  our  times  of  peace 
Transmits  a  bishop  to  the  see  of  Montreal  ;  ' 
And,  names  more  memorable  still,  the  "  prayer  " 
Counts  Father  Jogues  and  Rene  Goupil  there. 

RENE  GOUPIL. 

Know  ye  the  fountains  that  feed  the  Schoharie, 
Where  cradled  she  lies  in  the  Kaaterskill  rocks  ? 

1  The  late  Archbishop  Bourget  was  a  descendant  of  William 
Couture  the  captive. 


1 8  A NDIA  TOR OCTE. 

Saw  ye  at  Tribes'  Hill  the  sweet  stream  marry 
Her  placid  life  to  the  wild  Mohawk's  ? 

In  the  angle 

Where  they  mingle, 
Stands  the  cross  of  Auriesville, 
Stands  a  little  oratory 

On  the  summit  of  a  hill. 
It  beckons,  speaks  ;  it  bids  you  kneel. 
It  is  full  of  a  sweet  story 
Of  a  martyr  now  in  glory, 

Of  a  saint,  Rene  Goupil. 

Come,  go  with  me  thither.     We  '11  steal  through 

the  bushes  ; 

We  '11  climb  the  steep  bank  where  their  lodges  stood. 
I  '11  show  you  the  shells  of  their  feasts,  and  the 

ashes 

That 'blacken  the  ground  where  their  fires  glowed. 
Who  go  thither 
Still  may  gather 

Pipes,  and  bowls,  and  wampum  beads, 
Bones  of  deer  and  bear  and  otter, 

Hammers,  axes,  arrow-heads. 
To  me  there  's  blood  that  bleeds  there  still. 
As  the  plough  drags  through  the  furrow, 
Still,  methinks,  the  red  drops  follow 

Where  they  dragged  Rene  Goupil. 

There  yet  stands  the  hill  where   the  two  prayed 

together, 

Jogues,  mournful  survivor,  and  Rene  the  slain  ; 
Here  once  stood  the  gate  where  the   gentle  lay- 
brother 

Bent  down  to  the  hatchet  that  rent  his  brain. 
The  rivulet 
Is  running  yet ; 


A NDIA  TOROCTE.  1 9 

The  same  ravine  slopes  to  it  still ; 
Torrents  through  it  still  are  carried, 

When  quick  showers  flood  the  hill, 
As  the  old  "  Relations  "  tell. 
There  by  savage  hatred  hurried, 
There  by  loving  fingers  buried, 

Rest  the  ashes  of  Goupil. 

Say  not  America's  saints  are  all  foreign, 
That  martyrs  have  left  no  rich  blood  on  our  sod. 
On  the  atlas  of  souls  Lake  George  is  the  highroad 
Of  heroes  that  hastened  to  die  for  God. 
Spirits  rally 
In  the  valley 
Of  the  Kanionga  still  ; 
Oneiouts,  and  Goiogouen, 

Onondagas  of  the  Hill, 
Where  long  lay  the  buried  bell  ; 
Sonontouans — brave,  wife,  maiden  ; — 
Many  trails  that  lead  to  Eden 

Lead  from  thine,  Rene  Goupil  ! 


Gleamed  there  no  sacred  truth  on  these  dark  for 
esters 

Before  the  Black  Robe  to  their  lodges  came  ? 
Are  not  the  stars  all  tuneful  choristers, 
Singing  to  silent  souls  the  Maker's  name  ? 
What  are  the  clouds  but  scrolls  of  sacred  song  ? 
What  are  the  woods  but  Bibles  bound  in  green, 
That  speak  to  pious  thoughts  of  the  unseen  ? 
These  forests  had  their  bards.     They  gave  a  tongue 
To  rocks,  and  trees,  and  belts  of  beaded  bark. 
They  sang  of  hunting,  war,  love's  fitful  tears 
Of  joy  or  woe.     Oft,  rising  from  the  dark 
Traditionary  lore  of  slavish  fears, 


20  ANDIATOROCTE. 

They  heard  low  wooing  on  their  forest  path, 
That  voice  by  which  all  being  being  hath. 
Ah  !  think  you,  that  far-penetrating  grace 
Which  reaches  all  that  hangs  in  time  and  space 
However  lone,  brought  to  this  wilderness 
No  gift  for  love  in  aching  dreariness  ? 
Is  Heaven  too  far  away  to  speak  again 
When  hearts  thus  plead  in  loving  pain  ? 

KE-WE-GE-WAUN. 

That  which  I  seek  I  always  loved. 

Love  bent  the  bough 
Which  swung  my  infant  cries  to  sleep. 

Love  leads  me  now. 
I  seek  a  friend  who  hides  from  me. 

Where  is  he  then  ? 
This  long  long  while  I  find  no  track 

Of  his  moccasin. 
I  find  him  not  in  the  green-leaf  lodge. 

Is  he  on  the  lake  ? 
I  shade  my  sight.     There  his  canoe 

Has  left  no  wake. 
I  lay  my  ear  to  the  earth.     No  sound. 

Where  has  he  gone  ? 
I  cry  into  the  ear  of  the  dark  : 

Ke-we-ge-waun  !  * 
All  round  the  circle  of  the  sky 

His  voice  I  hear. 
Could  he  feel  the  beating  of  my  heart, 

He  would  appear. 
O  let  him  rise  above  the  hill 

Into  the  air  ! 
O  let  him  come  from  behind  the  cloud, 

If  he  be  there  ! 

1  I  wish  to  go  into  your  lodge. 


ANDIA  TOROCTE,  2 1 

Low  sounds  drop  from  the  happy  camps 

Beyond  the  moon. 
I  'm  sick  of  all  this  waiting  ; 

Will  he  come  soon  ? 
O  Father,  take  me  to  thy  lodge  ! 

Sore  to  be  gone, 
My  heart  sends  out  this  far-off  cry  : 

Ke-we-ge-waun  ! 

CANTO  III. 

[Indian  Magic  and  Divination.] 

From  the  sweet-scented  air  and  cooling  shade 
Of  this  piazza,  northward  cast  your  eye, 
And  follow  up  yon  chain  of  isles  that  lie 
Like  emeralds  on  a  fair  breast  displayed. 
In  line  they  lie  strung  out,  as  in  the  wake 
Of   some  canoe.     Lost  were   they  maybe  in   the 

flight 

Of  some  fair  giantess  who,  seized  with  fright, 
Her  frantic  paddle  plied  upon  the  lake, 
All  heedless  of  what  fell  from  her  fair  neck. 
'T  was  in  the  ancient  days,  you  know,  when  Oki 

here 

Their  councils  held.     Some  gathered  on  the  height 
Where  fair  Mt.  Prospect  sweeps  the  atmosphere, 
Embracing  in  its  ken,  not  only  this  fair  sheet 
Of  innocently  cradled  water  at  its  feet, 
But  far-stretched  valleys,  clustering  giant  hills, 
The  Adirondacks,  serpent  Hudson,  and  the  pale 

Kaatskills. 

Other  and  darker  spirits  met  betimes 
Where  Mt.  Black,  moody  monster,  lent  his  screen 
Of  hollow  flank,  and  darkly-scarred  ravine, 
To  demon  dances  preluding  wild  crimes. 


22  ANDIA  TOROCTE, 

Close  gullied  in  the  hill,  bedded  in  bog, 

And  mingling  smoke  with  the  dense  mountain  fog, 

In  ancient  times  a  lodge  of  saplings  stood, 

Saplings  bent  inward  to  a  ridge,  and  tied. 

No  difference  it  knew  of  roof  and  side, 

But  stood  a  cone  of  branches,  bark,  and  mud. 

Here  dwelt  in  former  days  a  Josakeed, 

Grim  sorcerer.     His  birthplace,  native  speech,  and 

breed 

None  knew.     Some  said  an  Oki  all  begot 
Out  of  the  hill — man,  bog,  and  hut. 
All  feared  his  anger  to  incur  ; 
Though  many  sought,  none  loved  the  sorcerer. 
Wolves  gazed  in  wondering  at  the  door. 
Lithe  rattlesnakes  crawled  free  across  the  floor, 
Warmed  freely  at  his  fire.     He  heeded  not. 
I  give  you  here  the  song  which,  wild  and  weird, 
Rang  forth  betimes  from  out  his  dismal  hut 
To  terrify  the  crowd  that  stood  about, 
Fond  clinging  to  the  magic  which  they  feared. 

THE   JOSAKEED. 

I,  the  Josakeed,  sit  in  my  lodge. 
Womb,  birth,  breast,  breath, 
Love,  hate,  life,  death, 
Game,  war,  I  judge. 

What  are  these  so  thin  and  white  ? 

Spirits  of  the  lofty  light. 

What  are  these  that  chill  me  so  ? 

Spirits  of  the  fog  and  snow. 

Why  do  they  groan  ? 

Because  I  dragged  them  fast  and  far 

Through  earth  and  air. 

Look  at  this  bone. 


A NDIA  TOROCTE.  2 3 

This  was  a  warrior's  thigh  ; 

This  was  his  arm  ; 

Each  carries  a  mighty  charm. 

Crossed  thus,  the  charm  I  magnify. 

When  I  beat  my  magic  drum 

With  this,  the  living  I  bid  ; 

With  this  I  call  the  dead  ; 

And  they  come. 

When  I  cross  the  two  with  a  prayer, 

And  draw  with  my  finger  the  sign  I  hate, 

The  stab  I  give  will  carry  fate 

Through  the  air. 

I  call  to  the  lake  to  send  me  rain  ; 

I  send  it  home  to  the  lake  again. 

I  call  the  thunder  from  the  west  ; 

It  rises  with  a  roar  ; 

Comes  trampling  over  the  prairie  floor  ; 

Comes  crowding  the  sky  with  its  breast  ; 

Comes  trembling  to  my  door  ; 

Sinks  growling  to  its  rest. 

A  lover  whistles  from  the  maize  ; 

The  lodge-fire  casts  a  wondering  blaze 

Upon  a  maiden's  scorn. 

I  point  to  her  this  feather  ; 

Heugh  !  See  two  dark  heads  bend  together 

Between  the  rows  of  corn. 

Ask  ye,  by  what  spell 

I  gathered  this  control  ? 

A  part  ye  may  know  ;  the  whole 

I  dare  not  tell. 

I  took  the  lip  of  a  moose, 
The  folds  of  a  buzzard's  neck, 
The  skin  from  a  dead  man's  back, 
The  hair  of  a  drowned  papoose. 


24  ANDIA  TOROCTE. 

From  the  belly  of  a  snake 

I  scooped  the  swarming  brood. 

Green  leeches  in  the  lake 

Clung  to  my  legs  ;  they  are  good. 

I  added,  to  ensure  the  charm, 

The  froth  of  a  frog. 

And  from  the  tongue  of  a  dog 

I  tore  the  worm. 

These,  mingled  well  together, 

In  a  hole  of  my  floor  I  heaped, 

And  on  the  mixture  I  leaped,  and  leaped 

Till  I  felt  the  spirits  gather. 

Three  days  I  fasted  without  food  ; 

Three  days  I  fasted  without  sleep  ; 

Three  days  I  wet  that  heap 

With  my  blood, 

Dipping  this  bone  and  plume. 

With  the  bone  I  beat  my  drum  ; 

With  my  head  I  beat  the  ground. 

Giddily  I  whirled  around, 

Praying  for  the  gift  to  come. 

Here  the  spirits  found  me  ; 

Angry  and  unwilling, 

Trembling,  leaping,  yelling, 

Formed  a  ring  around  me. 

Here  must  they  stay, 

The  Josakeed  must  obey, 

Till  the  spell  is  spent,  and  my  magic  boon 

Shall  die  away  with  the  dying  moon. 

Speak,  my  children,  say  your  need. 

What  ask  ye  of  the  Josakeed  ? 

A  different  cast  from  these  low  boastful  knaves 
Stand  forth  the  Prophets  of  the  Meda.     They, 
High  chieftans  among  chiefs,  braves  among  braves, 


ANDIATOROCTE.  2$ 

Wrap  themselves  up  in  mystery  to  gain  sway 
Where  sachems  sit  in  council,  paint  for  war. 
The  Meda  is  a  secret  college  branching  far, 
With  lore  traditionary  drawn  from  earth, 
And  much  of  fable  claiming  higher  birth. 
Its  sages  know  the  picture  tongue,  an  art 
Which  challenges  our  wonder  on  old  rocks, 
Or  hid  away  in  trees  near  to  the  heart, 
And  our  more  modern  literature  mocks. 
To  us  the  character  seems  wild  and  rude, 
Without  design,  as  drawn  in  idle  mood. 
But  those  that  the  Medawin  know,  can  read 
Legends  therein  of  councils,  hunts,  and  love, 
Yea  by  them  see  long  buried  armies  move, 
And  on  old  battle-grounds  see  warriors  bleed. 
Often  in  truth,  these  Meda  bards  will  sing 
In  lofty  strains,  to  their  free  fancies  given, 
Things  air-born,  holding  naught  of  earth  or  heaven. 
'T  is  thus  betimes  their  airy  words  take  wing. 

SONG    OF    THE    MEDA    PROPHET. 

I  sit  on  the  globe  as  on  a  throne. 

With  a  hand  I  hold  the  sky. 

I  pierce  the  heavens  with  my  eye  ; 

Its  curtains  part  to  me  alone, 

And  far  events  come  nigh. 

Ha  !  ha !  what  do  I  see  ! 

Ha,  ha !  what  do  I  hear  ! 

The  moons  come  rolling  down  to  me 

Like  cubs  before  the  loping  year. 

My  children,  I  shall  be  cold 

Ere  ye  behold 

What  to  me  is  already  here. 

The  sun  may  rise  ;  the  sun  may  set ; 
The  sun  may  come  and  go. 


26  ANDIA  TOROCTE. 

The  sun  is  not  the  Manito, 

But  a  spark  from  his  calumet. 

See  !  see  !  he  looks  this  way. 

Ha,  ha  !  what  does  he  say  ? 

Says  the  sun  :  "  I  walk  on  half  the  sky, 

It  throbs  like  a  mighty  drum 

If  I  hide  my  eye  with  a  frown. 

When  no  longer  I  look  down 

Upon  the  earth,  the  Oki  come, 

Bestriding  the  foul  weather. 

They  spit  red  needles  of  light, 

And  in  one  blanket  thick  and  tight 

Sew  the  black  clouds  together." 

He  says  :  "  O  Prophet,  hail ! " 

Hush  !  The  Prophet  sees  you  not. 

To  me  you  are  naught. 

I  look  beyond  the  little  trail 

Whereon  you  trot. 

Ha,  ha  !  All  know  the  Meda  king. 

All  bow  ;  the  earth  and  the  wood, 

The  sunshine,  and  the  weeping  cloud. 

Their  Oki  watch  my  enchanted  ring. 

The  trees  nod  as  I  walk  beneath. 

"  Sago  !  "  they  sigh, 

And  follow  me  with  sidelong  eye. 

Chatter  the  crags  like  chattering  teeth, 

When  a  hasty  sign  I  make. 

If  I  but  touch  my  magic  drum, 

The  demons  leap  from  their  mountain  home, 

And  make  my  lodge  poles  shake  ; 

But  me  they  move  not.     Far  away, 

Through  cloud  and  mist,  the  Prophet's  mind 

Sees  deeper  mysteries  unwind, 

And  unborn  years  to  him  are  gray. 


ANDIA  TOROCTE.  27 

The  superstitious  red  man's  spirit  sees 

A  throbbing  life  within  the  heart  of  trees  ; 

A  life  intelligent  that  thinks,  that  sings. 

Secrets  of  earth  and  sky,  unutterable  things 

Murmured  in  gentle  music,  fill  the  air  ; 

And  souls  that  walk  in  silence,  listening  there, 

Hear  voices  issuing  from  some  tuneful  tree, 

Within  whose  bark  lies  hid  the  mystery. 

But  what  it  says  no  man  can  tell. 

Only  the  Prophet,  the  Wabeno,  has  the  skill 

To  hold  the  tree  in  converse,  and  unlock  the  spell. 

Behold  translated  from  the  Ojibway  tongue 

What  once  a  singing  tree  to  a  Diviner  sung. 

THE    WABENO    TREE. 

Hark  !  hark  !  hark  !  hark  ! 

What  is  this  wonderful  thing  ? 

Can  the  Tamarack  sing  ? 

I  hold  my  ear  to  the  quivering  bark. 

It  says  :  "  I  'm  a  Wabeno  tree. 

For  my  life  I  sing  ; 

From  my  life  I  wring 

These  sounds  that  ooze  from  me. 

They  are  songs  from  below 

Which  I  alone  can  comprehend, 

I  and  my  Wabeno  friend 

To  whom  I  show 

The  secrets  of  the  Manito. 

My  friend  walks  into  my  magic  ring  ; 

He  stands  on  the  north,  on  the  mossy  side, 

Where  the  spirits  from  the  cavern  hide 

In  my  shade,  and  bids  me  sing. 

When  the  Wabeno  inclines  to  me — 

My  friend  the  Wabeno  signs  to  me — 

No  longer  to  the  ground  I  cling 


28  ANDIATOROCTE. 

With  foot  and  claw, 
But  free  into  the  air  I  spring  ; 
I  leap,  I  laugh,  I  dance,  I  sing, 
Obedient  to  the  Meda  law. 
I  am  a  faithful  forest  tree  ; 
What  is  law  to  all  is  law  to  me." 

CANTO  IV. 

[Some  glimpses  of  Convent  life.~\ 

Hark  !  from  the  sky  a  call,  earnest  and  deep. 
Softly  the  silent  lake  reflects  the  sound. 
Sweetly  it  sinks  into  the  woods  around, 
Then  drops,  like  faithful  duty  done,  to  sleep. 
Fell  ever  on  the  ear  such  silver  spray  ? 
How  quick  to   flood  the  air  !  How  quick  to  die 
away  ! 

'T  is  but  the  Angelus — the  signal  of  a  bell. 

Ay  !  true  ;  but  who  are  signalled  thus,  and  why  ? 

Know  ye  what  makes  yon  iron  throat  to  swell  ? 

Earth  interlocking  once  with  the  deep  sky, 

Eternity  was  born  child  to  the  hour  ; 

Men  saw  the  cradle  of  infinity. 

Such  is  the  burden  of  that  loud  outcry 

Which  leaps  into  the  air  from  yonder  tower. 

At  sunrise,  noon,  and  sunset  going  forth 

O'er  mountain  chain  and  sea,  circling  the  earth, 

Leaping  from  spire  to  spire,  the  Angelus  is  heard. 

Meek  worshippers,  low  bending  at  the  word, 

With  reverent  knee,  and  with  glad  unison 

Of  heart  and  lip,  repeat  the  Angel's  benison. 

A  Gabriel  in  the  belfry  gives  the  key, 

Three  silver  peals  repeated,  three  times  three. 

Arrested  by  the  summons,  loving  millions  pray  ; 

And  these  are  the  words  that  all  in  secret  say  : 


AND/A  TOROCTE.  2$ 

THE    ANGELUS. 

God's  Angel  came  with  word  and  sign 
To  Mary  of  a  child  divine. 

Hail  Mary,  full  of  grace.     And  hail 

The  fruit  of  thy  dear  womb  ! 
God's  Mother,  pray  for  us  this  day, 
And  when  our  death  shall  come. 

Lo  me  the  handmaid  of  the  Lord  ! 
Be  it  according  to  thy  word. 

Hail  Mary,  full  of  grace  !     And  hail 

The  fruit  of  thy  dear  womb  ! 
God's  Mother,  pray  for  us  this  day, 
And  when  our  death  shall  come. 

The  WORD  divine  did  flesh  assume, 
And  made  this  woful  world  His  home. 
Hail  Mary,  full  of  grace  !     And  hail 

The  fruit  of  thy  dear  womb  ! 
God's  Mother,  pray  for  us  this  day, 
And  when  our  death  shall  come. 

The  chime  that  seemed  to  idlers  on  the  shore 
A  fairy  note  descending  from  the  skies, 
To  please  the  sentimental  ear,  far  otherwise 
Fell  in  the  circle  where,  at  the  same  hour, 
Low  bent  the  Brethren  at  Mary's  shrine.    All  rose. 
To  them  its  clangor  was  the  sign  to  close 
Their  silent  meditation  with  the  Angel's  prayer. 
Thence,  while  with  downcast  eyes  they  still  revolve 
Slow  gathered  wreaths  of  thought,  desire,  resolve, 
They  wind  their  way  in  silence  down  the  stair, 
And  up  the  rustic  walk,  through  the  fresh  air, 
To  the  refectory.     Picture  no  lavish  hall 
Where  hearts,  like  harps,  may  be  unstrung  again, 


30  ANDIA  TOROCTE. 

Where  thought  gives  way  to  idle  tongue  again, 
And  recollection  vanishes  beyond  recall. 
Silence  still  rules  the  hour.     What  nature  needs 
She  freely  takes  ;  meanwhile  the  spirit  feeds 
With  unabated  hungering.     But  first  on  high 
They  lift  a  prayer  to  Heaven,  nay,  beads  of  song, 
A  cord  of  grateful  homage,  freely  strung 
With  antiphons,  short  versicles,  and  quick  reply. 
Their  voices,  like  the  lingerings  of  a  dream, 
Stir  my  soul  yet.     I  give  you  here  the  theme  ; 
But  all  the  life,  soul,  inspiration,  power, 
Are  gone,  with  the  sweet  influence  of  that  holy  hour. 

OCULI  OMNIUM. 
(Psalm  cxliv.,   15.) 

The  eyes  of  all  are  waiting, 

Waiting  on  Thee,  Lord  ; 

Waiting  for  the  daily  word 

That  gives  a  world  of  pensioners  their  board. 

Eyes  through  the  water  watching, 

Eyes  in  the  pathless  air, 

Eyes  gleaming  from  the  forest  lair  ; 

All  hungry  eyes  that  look  to  Thee  for  fare. 

Lord,  it  is  wonderful 

How  all  the  living  live  ! 

How  Thou  canst  so  much  give  ! 

Where  multitudes  so  many  want,  how  all  receive ! 

Oh  !  Thou  art  bountiful. 

Vast  is  Thy  hall  ; 

Vast  is  the  daily  call  ; 

Yet  lo,  before  the  evening  falls  Thou  feedest  all. 


ANDIA  TOROCTE.  3 1 

Lord,  our  eyes  are  waiting, 
Waiting  for  living  bread. 
Where  so  vast  a  board  is  spread, 
Among  the  rest,  O  Lord,  let  us  be  fed. 

The  benediction  ended,  reverential  hands 

Unclasp  a  book  that  on  the  lectern  stands. 

It  is  the  Martyrology,  volume  of  precious  dates. 

Each  day  throughout  the  year  commemorates 

Some  golden  life  sealed  at  the  passing  breath. 

All  its  nativities  begin  at  death — 

The  last  faint  step,  the  first  bright  fluttering, 

When  Saints  enfranchised  spread  to  Heaven  white 

wing, 

And  emigrate  to  God.     Here  sacred  story  rings 
The  passing  bell,  and  to  the  listener  sings 
How  Martyrs  shed  their  blood,  Confessors  bleed 
ing  tears, 
How  Virgins   saved   the   buds   from   their  young 

years 
To  wear  at   the   great   bridal,   how  lone   hermits 

strove 

By  conquering  the  will,  to  shape  it  to  true  love. 
Hail,  sweet  astronomy  of  holy  hearts  ! 
Saints  are  our  stars  ;  and  guided  by  their  light, 
Paths  gleam  along  the  billows,  as  if  night 
Were  brighter  day,  and  the  sky  hung  with  charts. 

Not   long  the   evening   meal.      Again   a   grateful 

prayer  ; 

And  breaking  the  long  silence,  all  descend 
The  hill  again.     With  them  let  us  too  wend 
Our  way  to  the  piazza.     'T  is  from  there 
The  convent  looks  across  Lake  George's  breast, 
And  up  the  hill-side,  into  the  nodding  West. 
The  hour  approaches  when  the  imperial  Sun, 


32  ANDIATOROCTE. 

His  round  of  daily  supervision  done, 
Among  the  Adirondacks  goes  to  rest. 
Sky,  cloud,  hill,  lake,  all  urgently  invite. 
Come,  let  us  join  with  them  to  bid  the  King  "  Good 
night." 

CANTO  V. 

\A  Sunset  on  Lake  George. ,] 

All  through  the  afternoon,  drooping  at  ease, 

Like  canvas  loosely  clewed,  the  clouds  hung  low, 

Or  higher  up  mustered  in  balls  of  snow, 

Or  higher  still,  combed  by  a  freer  breeze 

Into  thin  streamers,  stretched  out  far  before. 

A  fleet  of  clouds,  the  admiral  ashore, 

All  seemed  uncertain  what  to  do, 

All  waited  for  the  word  to  go. 

But  no  word  came.     The  heavens  at  our  return 

Are  little  changed,  save  that  the  sun  is  lower  ; 

His  fierce  white  eye  has  lost  its  blinding  power, 

And  with  a  sadder  passion  now  doth  burn. 

What   ails    the   king  ?     Why    does    the    monarch 

mourn  ? 

He  mourns  because  the  hour  is  nigh 
When  he  must  leave  the  heavens  alone 
With  the  swarthy  night,  and  the  passionless  moon. 
He  will  throw  back  kisses  by  and  by. 
We  must  wait  to  see  how  the  clouds  will  glow, 
And  burning  blushes  come  and  go 
To  be  courted  so  by  the  lord  of  the  sky. 

Behind  the  northwest  bay  the  misty  cowls 
That  cap  the  hills  oft  change  to  crowns  of  light, 
And  in  close  sympathy  the  bay  itself  grows  bright, 
Or  darkens  its  fair  features  into  scowls. 
Sweet  is  it  whiles  to  see  the  sky  look  through 


ANDIATOROCTE.  33 

Torn  patches  of  white  cloud  with  eyes  of  blue, 
The  blue  of  Italy.     Our  heavens  darker  show, 
And  far  more  softly  blue,  when  curtained  so. 
Mirror  of  all  above,  Lake  George  lies  calm  and  still 
In  borrowed  loveliness,  the  loan  of  sky  and  hill. 

The  evening  grows.     All  of  departing  day 

That  still  remains  is  gathered  in  the  west. 

Descending  slow  the  sun  with  proud  survey 

Looks  backward  over  the  mountain  crest. 

Ah  !  we  shall  have  a  grand  display 

Of  art  divine  when  he  is  gone, 

When  the  curtains  o'er  his  couch  are  drawn. 

The  sky  will  show  its  rarest  scenery, 

The  clouds  will  robe  in  all  their  finery. 

As  down  he  slides  how  his  circle  swells  ! 

He  sinks,  fast  sinks  to  his  bed  in  the  hills  ; 

We  see  him  move  ;  we  follow  his  glide  ; 

We  measure  his  motion  by  palpable  drop  ; 

The  giant  Adirondacks  open  wide 

Their  granite  jaws  to  swallow  him  up. 

The  woods  that  struggle  in  his  rays 

With  amorous  joy  are  all  ablaze. 

A  momentary  glory  :  lo  !  the- great  sun  dies 

With  no  color  of  beauty  in  his  eyes. 

The  lake  below  lies  desolate  and  chill ; 

Gray  shadows  climb  to  the  edge  of  the  hill  ; 

The  listless  clouds  hang  overhead, 

All  unconcerned  that  the  night  doth  fall ; 

Little  they  care  to  festoon  his  bed. 

He  dies  !  he  dies  !  and  now  he  is  dead. 

We  shall  have  no  sunset,  after  all. 

Beshrew  my  hasty  heart  and  slanderous  tongue  ! 
I  have  done  to  the  sweet  heavens  wrong. 
See  that  quick  glow  !     Some  painter's  brush 


34  ANDIA  TOROCTE. 

Has  changed  the  scowl  of  the  sky  to  a  blush  ; 

And  now,  as  they  catch  their  monarch's  eye 

The  clouds  wake  up  with  a  flush, 

And  hang  out  their  richest  upholstery. 

How  rapidly  the  west  unrolls 

Its  drapery,  spreads  forth  its  glorious  folds  ! 

To  what  shall  I  liken  the  display  ? 

A  ship  that  crowding  all  her  canvas  flings 

Forth  to  the  breeze  a  full  attire  of  wings  ; 

Alas  !  the  quicker  to  speed  away. 

Spread  all !  speed  on  !  no  time  to  loiter. 

Show  all  your  wealth  ;  festoon  !  festoon  ! 

And  make  this  twilight  hour  brighter 

Than  the  bright  afternoon. 

Let  nature  spare  no  art  to  feed 

The  hunger  of  devotion, 

Though  the  fond  sky  should  burn  and  bleed 

Through  surfeit  of  emotion. 

Let  a  full  canopy  be  spread 

With  curtains  of  the  brightest  hue  ; 

Hang  gold  beneath  the  blue  and  red, 

And  brown  above  the  blue. 

Is  there  no  blazonry  save  in  the  west  ? 

The  hills  that  bound  the  northwest  bay 

No  kisses  wave,  no  scarfs  display. 

A  purple  twilight  caps  each  crest. 

Tongue  Mountain  gathers  no  light  on  his  cheek, 

Above  his  head  no  halos, 

But  over  the  narrow  waist  of  the  lake 

Nods  drearily  to  his  fellows. 

Draw  the  night  curtains  over  your  head. 

Old  sluggard  ;  to  the  setting  sun 

Your  parting  is  already  said, 

Though  scarcely  yet  begun. 

Is  the  south  sky  also  dreary  ? 


ANDIATOROCTE  35 

Not  dreary  ;  but  its  light  is  dying, 
And  the  clouds,  in  gray  blankets  lying, 
Seem  like  huntsmen  chill  and  weary. 
But  oh  !  see  !  see  !  the  wonderful  West 
All  bright  and  glorious  doth  remain  ! 
The  sunset  streams  against  his  breast, 
To  fall  in  golden  dust  again, 
A  shower  of  prismatic  rain 
Upon  the  mountain  crest. 
Stay  now  !     Change  nothing  !     All  is  well. 
Let  our  eyes  fill  !     Where  every  hue 
Is  lovelier  than  tongue  can  tell, 
The  heart  desires  nothing  new. 

Vain  pleading ;  fickle  as  the  glowworm's  glow, 

These  dewy  tapestries  now  fade,  now  fill  ; 

The  tides  of  color  ebb  and  flow, 

The  last  always  the  loveliest ;  until, 

As  startled  by  some  fear  or  freak, 

Shrinks  the  blood  back  from  the  celestial  cheek. 

And  all  that  lately  seemed  so  real, 

And  was  so  lovely  in  the  scenery, 

Dissolves  like  dreams  which  the  machinery 

Of  fancy  knits  in  sleep  from  the  ideal. 

Comes  back  again  the  cold  uncolored  light ; 

The  clouds  resume  their  wraps  of  dusty  brown  ; 

Closed  are  the  shutters  of  the  night  ; 

The  show  is  done  :  the  sun  is  down. 

What  is  there  left  behind  ? 

What  is  there  still  to  look  upon  ? 

Only  a  ridge  of  hill  sharp-lined 

Against  a  sky  of  stone. 

No  more  ?    Ay,  in  the  blue  vault  overhead, 

Something  unseen  before  is  spread. 

Wide  unrolling,  groping,  drooping  nigher, 

An  ominous  canopy  of  cloud  has  grown, 


36  ANDIA  TOROCTE. 

Like  the  smoke  of  a  great  council  fire 
When  all  the  chiefs  are  gone. 

All  nature  seems  to  hold  its  breath,  so  deep 

The  silence.     All  the  leaves,  still  ears, 

Seem  listening  to  hear  what  little  stirs. 

Softly  across  the  lake  light  undulations  creep, 

And  murmuring  low  prayers  lay  meekly  down 

Under  the  rocky  walls  that  breast  the  shore. 

Is  there  some  solemn  service  going  on  ? 

This  lake — is  it  some  sacred  temple  floor, 

With  hills  for  galleries  ?     Ah  !  holy  silence  speak  ; 

If  God  be  nearer  now,  thy  message  break, 

And  give  to  souls  that  love  the  signal  to  adore. 

Only  the  crickets  have  a  heart  to  sing, 

But  not  for  joy.     The  dismal  tree-toad  croaks 

A  harsh  monotony  from  yon  clump  of  oaks, 

And   tattered   birch.     The  prowling  night-hawk's 

wing 

A  passing  shadow  throws  against  the  sky, 
Upon  his  way  to  some  dark  burglary. 
So  evil  stirs  when  honest  life  is  still, 
Loving,  not  silence,  but  the  dark.     Stay  !  hush  ! 
What  threnody  comes  wailing  from  yon  bush  ? 
It  is  the  cry  of  the  whippoorwill. 
Waste  no  compassion  on  a  causeless  folly 
That  takes  delight  in  nursing  melancholy, 
Out  of  the  moonlight  weaves  a  wanton  misery. 
Are  there  no  human  fools  as  fond  as  he  ? 
Let  us  shake  off  the  influence  of  the  night 
With  song,  or  joyous  converse.     No  twilight 
Gathers  in  healthy  spirits.     The  pale  moon 
Reflects  her  softened  sunbeams,  not  for  grief  alone, 
But  more  for  grateful  love,  and  thoughtful  prayer. 
True  souls  seek  shade  only  when  God  is  there. 


ANDIA  TOROCTE.  37 

Ah  !  there  are  skies  with  suns  that  never  set, 
Clouds  that  wear  constant  gold  beneath  the  violet  ; 
Green  trees  that  spread  no  gloom  along  the  grove. 
Shines  always  light  in  hearts  that  truly  love. 
'T  is  Lady-Day  ;  winged  angels  are  abroad. 
Come  !     Give  the  present  hour  to   Mary,    and  to 
God. 

How  oft  the  heart's  best  wishes  are  forestalled  ! 

What  sympathies  are  noduled  everywhere  ! 

What  filaments  electric  wire  the  air  ! 

What  sudden  carriers  come  to  souls  uncalled  ! 

Does  nature  work  thus  by  some  means  unknown  ; 

Or  are  these  agents  of  another  state, 

Still  natural,  but  higher  than  our  own, 

That  sometimes  with  our  world  communicate  ? 

Or  is  it  the  same  hand  divine  that  weaves 

Our  higher  destinies,  yet  never  leaves 

To  natural  law  alone  the  little  threads, 

Or  grudges  helpful  grace  to  little  needs  ? 

Let  the  dull  realist  interpret  by  his  rule, 

Clothe   the   dead   dust  with  empire,  heaven  with 

crape, 

Love,  thought,  and  conscience  out  of  atoms  shape  ; 
We  poets,  prophets  of  a  nobler  school, 
Will  cleave  to  a  philosophy  with  wings, 
Emancipate  imperial  thought  from  things, 
See  more  in  life  than  sense,  in  death  than  rust ; 
Seek  causes  in  the  sky,  not  in  the  dust. 
Why,  when  a  pulse  or  two  ago,  as  love  computes, 
I  called  to  the  deep  silence  for  some  notes 
Of  pious  melody  to  fill  the  void 
Within  my  thought,  by  silence  made, 
And  which  a  tuneful  silence  only  could  supply, — 
How,  on  the  very  instant,  came  reply  ? 
Promptly  it  came,  and  softly  through  the  air  ; 


38  ANDIATOROCTE. 

Prompt  as  assurance  from  suspected  love, 
Soft  as  betimes  come  stepping  from  above 
By  velvet  stairs,  angeis  with  boon  to  prayer. 
Coincidences,  say  you.     Ay  ;  but  the  tether, 
The  cord,  the  wave  electric,  by  whose  means 
Is  overlapped  the  space  that  intervenes, 
And  souls  apart  think,  breathe  together  ; 
Stretch  bodiless  hands,  touch,  give  the  grip, 
Where  previous  thought  knew  naught  of  fellowship  ; 
Tell  me  the  secret,  brother,  if  you  know  it  : 
The  magnet  show,  if  you  can  show  it. 
Then  may  the  victor's  greenest  laurel  crown  you, 
And  a  poet's  benison  be  on  you. 

Through  distant  windows  of  the  convent  came  the 

sound. 

By  custom  drawn,  or  in  a  pious  mood, 
Some  tuneful  choristers  of  the  brotherhood 
Had  gathered  in  the  library  around 
A  stand,  with  Hymnals,  and  a  Gradual, 
Rehearsing  for  the  morrow's  festival. 
I  give  the  substance  of  what  was  sung, 
Rendered,  as  best  I  can,  in  English  tongue  ; 
But  that  rare  hymn  with  its  gentle  power, 
And  the  charm  that  clings  to  Gregorian  tone, 
And  the  eloquent  breath  of  a  holy  hour 
I  cannot  give.     The  spell  is  gone. 

AVE    MARTS  STELLA. 

Hail,  thou  star  of  ocean  ! 

Guide,  and  guard,  and  haven  ; 
Mother,  and  yet  Virgin  ; 

Happy  gate  of  heaven. 

Take  the  "  ave  "  Gabriel 
Brings  thee,  holy  Maiden  ; 


ANDIA  TOROCTE.  39 

And,  a  new  Eve,  lead  us 
Safe  to  a  new  Eden. 

Loose  the  sinner's  fetters  ; 

Give  the  blind  soul  vision  ; 
Evil  chase.     For  every 

Needful  grace  petition. 

'T  was  for  us  the  Saviour 

Sanctified  and  chose  thee  ; 
Show  thyself  a  Mother. 

Will  thy  Son  refuse  thee  ? 

Maid,  above  all  maidens 

Mild  and  pure  as  crystal ; 
Gentle  Mary,  make  us 

Also  pure  and  gentle. 

Make  our  pathway  surer  ; 

Calm  life's  rushing  fever  ; 
Keep  us  until  Jesus 

Seal  our  souls  forever. 


CONCLUSION. 

Would  you  see  Lake  George  aright  ? 

Come  meekly,  then,  with  staff  in  hand, 

True  pilgrim  to  a  holy  land, 

A  summer's  anchorite. 

Abandon,  with  the  crowded  town, 

Parlor,  shop,  office,  all  show  of  dress. 

All  fever  of  work  or  of  idleness. 

Come  not  with  simpering  fops  to  drown, 

In  ball-room  chatter, 

The  eloquence  of  the  holy  lake. 

And  brother,  oh  !  for  pity's  sake, 

Save  these  sweet  woodlands  from  the  clatter 


4O  ANDIA  TOROCTE. 

Of  carriage  wheels,  and  horses'  feet, 

And  the  dusty  breath  of  the  street. 

If  forsooth  you  come  to  buy, 

To  build  a  lodge  or  cottage  nigh, 

Ah  !  bring  no  vandal  hand 

To  mar  the  beauty  of  lake  or  land. 

Save  nature  to  the  eye. 

Build  out  no  pier  to  overreach 

The  graceful  windings  of  the  beach. 

Be  not  too  quick  to  clip  and  clear. 

A  hasty  hand  will  soon  undo 

What  slowly  to  perfection  grew 

Through  many  a  gathering  year. 

On  lake  or  land  all  life  is  precious. 

Show  grace  ;  and  should  some  sudden  quarrel 

With  nature  place  your  life  in  peril, 

May  lake  and  land  be  gracious  ! 

Come,  brother,  come ;  but  with  you  bring 

No  trick  of  city  gardening. 

Wear  not  your  time  and  patience  out 

With  needless  spade  and  clumsy  pot, 

And  weary  watering. 

Here  out  from  nature's  bosom  bud 

Sweet  flowers,  nurslings  of  sun  and  cloud, 

Her  own  free  offering. 

Pencilled  are  they  by  a  deft  hand 

That  never  fails  ; 

By  sovereign  genius  made  to  stand 

Where  beauty  most  avails. 

The  sturdy  rocks  are  trellises 

On  which  the  wild  vine  trails  ; 

The  meadows  lift  gay  chalices 

To  pledge  the  clouds  that  pass  ; 

The  violet  opens  her  blue  eye 


ANDIA  TOROCTE.  41 

Beneath  the  spears  of  grass, 
Green  pennants  wave  on  high, — 
Love  reigns,  guarded  by  chivalry. 
The  clover,  daisy,  buttercup, 
Thick-scattered  o'er  the  fields,  look  up 
With  reverence,  to  claim  smile  and  nod 
And  blessing  from  the  golden-rod. 
Benignant  in  his  beauty  towers 
The  crosiered  prelate  of  the  flowers. 

Such  treasures  do  our  highlands  yield  : 

Thickly  they  crowd  and  grow 

Where  the  sun  is  free  to  glow, 

And  press  hot  lips  to  the  field  ; 

But  far  more  tenderly  I  love 

The  sweet  recluses  of  the  grove. 

The- forest  flowers  are  not  so  gay 

As  those  of  the  open  air  ; 

Their  simple  beauty  shuns  display  ; 

More  pure  and  delicate  are  they, 

And  methinks  more  truly  fair. 

All  flowers,  like  the  heliotrope, 

Follow  the  circling  sun  ; 

But  the  forest  flower  his  gaze  doth  shun. 

Through  leafy  vistas  looking  up 

With  deeper,  loftier  desire, 

To  it,  secluded  from  low  light, 

Rapt  seer  of  a  loftier  sight, 

The  signal  stars  come  nigher. 

Come,  brother,  lake  and  stars  invite  you  ; 
Cast  the  old  life  aside  ; 
Open  the  heart  doors  wide  ; 
Andiatorocte  will  requite  you. 
Come,  see  these  chestnut  hills  aglow 


42  ANDIA  TOROCTE. 

Beneath  their  drifts  of  summer  snow  ; 

Come,  bring  free  lungs  to  this  mountain  air 

Come,  drink  from  fountains  pure  and  clear 

Bathe  with  the  fishes,  sing  with  the  birds  ; 

Warm  your  veins  in  sunny  meadows  ; 

Ponder  whiles  in  silent  shadows  ; 

Cull  from  the  archives  of  these  highlands, 

These  dreamy  banks,  bays,  inlets,  islands, 

The  old  traditions  of  the  lake, 

Tales  of  hunter,  scout,  and  brave. 

Of  holy  feet  that  knew  no  leisure, 

Swimming  eyes  that  found  no  pleasure, 

Loved  no  science,  but  to  save. 

Come  with  pulse  prepared  to  rhyme 

With  artless  life,  yet  tuned  to  chime 

With  life's  great  Oversoul. 

Are  not  the  rings  of  space  and  time  • 

Linked  in  a  perfect  whole  ? 

Leave  things  for  truth  ;  begin  to  think  ; 

Change  shallow  facts  for  wiser  lore  ; 

Come  study  beauty  for  beauty's  sake. 

I  promise  you  that  you  shall  drink, 

O  pilgrim  to  the  holy  lake, 

As  never  before, 

Draughts  of  pure  and  joyous  truth  ; 

A  sweetness  shall  lie  on  your  tongue, 

And  your  eyes  shall  grow  young, 

O  Ponce  De  Leon,  with  perpetual  youth. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


43 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


THE    ENGLISH    SPARROW. 

As  I  lay  sick  on  my  bed, 
So  sick  that,  to  my  weary  brain, 
The  downy  pillow  seemed  lead 
Under  my  head  ; 
As  wearily  thus  reclining, 
I  gazed  through  the  window-pane, 
Where  nothing  met  my  eye 
Save  leafless  branches  intertwining 
Betwixt  me  and  the  sky  ; 
A  little  cock-sparrow  flew  into  the  tree, 
And  looked  through  the  window  at  me. 
"  Begone  !  "  said  I,  "  you  hateful  thing  ! 
You  're  as  ugly  as  sin,  and  you  cannot  sing. 
Besides,  you  're  a  rascally  thief  ; 
The  mischief  you  've  done  to  the  grain, 
And  the  fruit,  and  will  do  again, 
Is  past  belief. 

Wherever  your  scolding  voice  is  heard 
You  are  known  for  a  quarrelsome  bird. 
You  drive  the  dear  little  thrushes  away, 
The  robin  and  the  wren. 
Go  back  to  your  English  home  again, 
You  brawling  thief,  and  stay  ! 
45 


46  THE  ENGLISH  SPARROW. 

You  have  my  mind  in  these  few  words  : 
American  skies  for  American  birds. 
Shoo  !   sparrow,  fly  away  !  " 

Was  it  a  little  cock-lawyer  I  spied, 

With  an  expanse  of  legal  breast, 

His  thumbs  in  the  arm-holes  of  his  vest, 

And  his  hair  brushed  back  with  professional  pride  ? 

No  ;  't  was  the  little  cock-sparrow  replied  ; 

Sprightly  he  hopped  to  my  window-sill  ; 

Lightly  he  lifted  his  coat-tail  behind, 

While  he  stooped  to  sharpen  his  bill, 

And,  perhaps,  to  recall  to  mind 

A  few  points  of  his  case. 

Then,  with  a  courtly  grace, 

And  just  the  proper  degree  of  excitement, 

He  put  in  his  plea 

In  answer  to  me, 

And  my  indictment. 

"  Before  this  great  high  court  of  Heaven, 

Where  all  of  us,  both  birds  and  men, 

Stand  self-accused  of  sin, 

And  hope  to  be  forgiven, 

Permit  me  here  to  recommend 

To  my  learned  friend 

A  little  moderation 

Jn  his  use  of  actionable  words. 

It  is  known  to  some  of  us  birds 

Of  a  more  liberal  education, 

That  the  Great  Father  of  us  all 

Will  not  allow  a  sparrow  to  fall 

To  the  ground,  on  a  simple  accusation, 

Through  the  mere  force  of  vociferation, 

Without  a  true  bill  found. 

Now,  let  me  ask  a  word  or  two,  sir, 


THE  ENGLISH  SPARROW.  47 

Of  you,  sir, 

Who,  to  my  deep  grief, 

(Though  without  any  brief,) 

Appear  as  my  accuser  ; 

Where  are  your  proofs  that  I  am  a  thief, 

And  that  I  steal  the  grain  ?  " 

I  said  :  "  The  evidence  is  plain  ; 

It  is  a  fact  of  common  report. 

The  public  opinion  against  you  is  clear, 

And  others  of  your  sort." 

"  Is  public  opinion,"  he  said,  "  to  pass  here 

For  law  or  evidence, 

In  my  case,  or  that  of  any  other  ? 

Is  it  even  common-sense  ? 

Allow  me  to  refer  my  brother 

To  a  case  in  point,  where  the  court 

(See  Vol.  3,  of  Longfellow's  Report) 

Confirmed  the  old  established  rule, 

That  public  opinion  's  the  law  of  a  fool  ; 

That,  on  the  strength  of  current  stories, 

For  a  farmer  to  scatter  powder  and  shot, 

Even  though  it  should  be  on  his  own  lot, 

Is  contra  bonos  mores  ; 

Granting  injunction,  and  so  forth, 

To  plaintiffs,  the  birds  of  Killingworth." 

Here,  as  lawyers  will  pause,  to  look  at  their  briefs, 

Or  wipe  their  heads  with  their  handkerchiefs, 

Or  readjust  their  collars, 

So  the  sparrow  came  to  a  stop, 

Indulged  in  a  nutter  and  a  hop, 

And  then  proceeded  as  follows  : 

"  Now,  I  am  free  to  admit 

(For  I  am  candid  enough 


48  THE  ENGLISH  SPARROW. 

Not  to  wish  to  pass  myself  off 

For  a  saint,  or  an  anchoret,) 

That  I  have  been  quick,  in  my  day 

And  somewhat  disputatious, 

My  gracious  ! 

Is  that  a  case  for  Botany  Bay  ? 

That  I  am  fond  of  wheat,  I  own, 

When  I  see  it  on  the  ground  ; 

Very  easily  found 

When  carelessly  sown  ; 

And  when  it  swings  in  the  yellow  ear, 

In  the  golden  time  of  the  year, 

I  may  stop  to  pick  a  grain  or  two. 

All  birds  do  that  ;  would  n't  you  ? 

But  bless  your  soul  !  you  may  safely  say, 

If  opportunity  makes  the  thief, 

According  to  the  common  belief, 

'T  is  little  enough  we  get  that  way. 

Now,  ask  yourself — all  the  year  round, 

When,  in  the  sheaf,  or  on  the  ground, 

No  grain  turns  up 

To  put  into  crop, 

But  all  is  stored  in  the  barn  or  bin, 

Where  sparrows  cannot  get  in, — 

Pray,  what  are  we  doing  then  ? 

Where  then  do  we  get  our  meat  and  drink  ? 

O  man  !  man  !  man  !  't  is  a  show 

How  little  you  lords  of  creation  know, 

And  how  little  you  think  ! 

Why,  every  intelligent  Rusticus, 

With  an  ounce  of  brain, 

Knows  that  the  passer  domes ticus, 

Though  he  loves  the  grain, 

Is  insectivorous, 

And,  although  in  England  some  narrow  heads 

May  offer  rewards  for  sparrow-heads, 


THE  ENGLISH  SPARROW.  49 

Yet,  we  are  in  better  report 

With  farmers  of  a  wiser  sort. 

It  is  an  old  tradition  there 

That,  of  our  species,  a  single  pair, 

When  breeding,  destroy  in  one  short  week, 

Four  thousand  caterpillars. 

This  is  the  food  we  seek 

To  feed  our  young  ;  saving  thus,  to  the  millers 

And  farmers,  so  much  in  grain 

When  the  harvest  comes  again. 

Now  I  ask  my  learned  brother's  decision, 

In  re  civium  versus  passer es, 

Whether  services  like  these 

Do  not  deserve  some  slight  commission  ; 

And  whether,  or  not, 

We  ought  to  be  paid  in  powder  and  shot  ? " 

Here  Johnny  stopped  to  sharpen  his  bill 

On  the  windowstone, 

As  sparrows  will, 

When  reflecting  what  is  next  to  be  done  ; 

Twisting  his  busy  little  head, 

With  many  a  sudden  crook, 

And  with  many  a  sharp,  inquisitive  look 

To  where  I  lay  on  my  bed. 

Then  changing  attitude, 

After  a  sudden  hop  and  a  flutter, 

Poised  on  one  leg  he  stood, 

As  if  waiting  for  our  rebutter. 

Said  I  :  "  The  points  you  make 

Are  very  skilfully  put, 

And  very  artfully  worded,  but 

You  labor  under  a  slight  mistake  ; 

Your  learning  might  have  more  weight 

Were  I  a  lawyer  or  magistrate. 


50  THE  ENGLISH  SPARROW. 

But  please  withdraw  ; 
I  am  nothing  of  the  sort  ; 
I  plead  at  a  higher  court, 
And  teach  a  higher  law." 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,"  he  said, 

With  a  bob  of  his  little  head  ; 

"  Pardon  my  want  of  sense  ; 

How  could  I  mistake  your  Reverence  ? 

But  no  words  can  express 

My  present  happiness. 

I  'm  always  delighted  to  meet,  when  I  can, 

With  a  clergyman. 

Permit  me  to  recall  to  mind 

Those  gracious  words  already  quoted, 

Wherein  so  clearly  is  denoted 

The  care  of  Heaven  for  our  kind. 

The  psalmist  David  knew  us  well, 

And  on  our  habits  loved  to  dwell. 

Oft  in  affliction  he  sat  aloof 

With  us  on  the  lonely  roof. 

I  watch,  said  he,  like  a  sparrow  alone, 

On  the  house-top. 

There  often  sadly  he  came  up 

To  pray  ;  but  never  said  Begone  ! 

Nor  dreamed  that  a  sparrow  could  intrude 

Upon  the  holiest  solitude. 

In  that  holy  prophet's  time,  I  find 

That  even  the  sacred  temple  court 

Was  made  the  resort 

Of  worshippers  of  our  kind. 

We  hung  our  homes  to  pillar  and  beam  ; 

There  with  the  sons  of  Korah  we  sang, 

While  the  panelled  cedar  above  us  rang 

With  the  praises  of  Elohim. 

And  this  is  the  song  that  was  sung  : 


THE  ENGLISH  SPARROW.  5  I 

Lo,  the  sparrow  hath  found  a  rest, 
Where  she  may  lay  her  young  j 
And  the  turtle  hath  built  herself  a  nest 
Where  her  little  ones  may  lie, 
Even  thy  altars,  O  Adonai ! 

"  But  the  ancients  have  had  their  day  ; 

Let  us  see  what  modern  society 

Has  to  say, 

Whether  sparrows  now  walk  the  narrow  way, 

And  practise  piety. 

There  's  a  singing  sparrow  in  Congo, 

Of  whom  the  missionaries  tell 

(See  Buffon,  '  L'Histoire  Naturelle  '), 

And  thus  does  the  wild  bird's  song  go  : 

'  Va  dritto  ! ' — go  right — such  is  his  call, 

Proclaiming  the  moral  law  to  all. 

In  the  heart  of  man  this  law 

Is  a  song  without  words, 

A  trembling  of  voiceless  chords, 

An  undefined,  mysterious  awe, 

A  language  of  the  silent  night 

Sitting  in  judgment  on  the  light. 

But  this  little  sparrow  puts  words  to  the  song, 

And  sings  them  all  day  long. 

'  Va  dritto  ! ' — go  right  ! 

'T  is  the  conscience  of  the  wilderness. 

To  every  thing  that  goeth  there, 

To  every  thing  that  groweth  there, 

He  sings  ;  and  only  men  transgress. 

"  On  the  same  African  shore 

A  sweeter  note  is  heard, 

And  a  dearer  word 

Rings  in  the  woods  forevermore. 

And  still  it  is  the  sparrow's  throat 


52  THE  ENGLISH  SPARROW. 

That  utters  the  note, 

And  names  the  name  that  men  adore. 

As  soon  as  the  morning  wakes, 

He  sets  up  his  song  and  sings. 

Then  through  the  forest  and  over  the  brakes 

A  heavenly  music  rings  ; 

But  the  magic  of  the  sound 

Which  sanctifies  that  heathen  ground 

Is  in  the  naming  of  a  name 

Which  only  one  can  claim — 

'  Jesu  !  '     This  is  his  morning  hymn  ; 

And  the  Christian  missionary  there 

Is  roused  from  sleep  with  a  call  to  prayer. 

And  when  the  day  grows  dim, 

The  sparrow  sings  this  sweet  curfew  : 

' Jesu  !  Jesu  ! ' 

Then  is  it  not  true, — 

Ere  ever  the  sacred  word  was  broken, 

Ere  ever  a  Christian  tongue  had  spoken 

On  African  ground,  God  was  made  known 

To  the  heathen  nations  there, 

And  the  poor  negro  learned  a  prayer 

From  a  missionary  of  our  own  ? 

With  like  intent, 

By  the  same  Great  Father  sent, 

Hither  this  morning  was  I  led 

To  sing  at  your  sick-bed. 

Had  your  heart  listened,  it  might  have  heard 

As  dear  a  word, 

As  sweet  a  tune. 

In  the  heart  is  grown 

All  the  music  of  earth  and  sky. 

I  hope  you  will  be  well  soon. 

Good-bye  ! " 


ETERNITY.  53 


ETERNITY. 

What  art  thou,  O  Eternity  ? 

Show  thy  true  face  to  me. 

For  now  thou  hidest  from  my  thought, 

By  thy  grandeur  overwrought, 

And  all  distraught. 

Let  my  soul  see  thee  as  thou  art. 

No  longer  crouch  a  shapeless  error, 

A  nameless  terror, 

A  dusky  shadow  on  my  heart. 

Art  thou  composed  of  time  and  motion  ? 

Is  thy  vast  magnitude 

Made  up  of  increase,  number,  multitude  ; 

Like  an  ideal  ocean, 

Whose  waves  successive  speed  forevermore, 

Each  after  each, 

Yet  never  reach, 

Nor  ever  quit  a  shore  ? 

Is  endless  time  eternity  ? 

Spake  a  low  voice  to  me 

Nearer  than  my  thought  : 

"  Motion  and  time  to  me  are  naught. 

These  are  measures  of  the  creature. 

The  mind  of  man 

Can  never  span 

An  attribute,  or  act,  or  feature 

Of  a  life  like  mine. 

For  I  am  God  ;  and  my  eternity 

Is  but  an  attribute  of  my  divinity, 

And  like  myself  divine. 

I  move  at  my  own  good  pleasure, 

My  flight  as  long  as  fleet  ; 

And  when  my  wings  I  beat, 


54  PICTURES  ON   THE  MANTEL. 

What  thought  of  man  can  measure 
The  length  of  their  vibration, 
Or  register  in  counterpart 
The  throbbing  of  my  mighty  heart, 
And  number  its  duration  ? 

0  vain  endeavor 

To  map  and  plan,  by  rule  and  rod, 
The  years  of  God  ! 

1  am,  I  am,  I  am  forever. 

My  life  no  past,  no  future  claims  ; 
Eternity  is  one  of  my  names.' 

In  God  we  live  ;  yet  not  like  His  our  living. 

Our  being  flows  in  His  which  has  no  tide. 

On  a  calm  breast  we  ride 

Which,  life  and  movement  to  us  giving, 

Taketh  itself  no  motion. 

Thus  on  the  surface  of  the  ocean 

The  light  waves  flow 

As  the  breezes  blow  ; 

They  stretch  themselves  from  crest  to  crest, 

But  measure  only  their  own  unrest. 

Beneath  their  superficial  strife 

The  untroubled  deep 

Its  calm  doth  keep, 

Held  by  a  mightier  life. 


PICTURES  ON  THE  MANTEL. 

Old  and  feeble,  and  nearly  blind, 

Shrunk  and  shattered  in  body  and  mind, 

A  leafless  wintry  tree  ; 

Before  me  a  vacant  desert  spread, 

Behind  me  a  garden  whose  flowers  are  dead, 

But  death  comes  slow  to  me. 


PICTURES  ON   THE  MANTEL.  55 

In  that  frame  above  the  mantel  there, 

From  under  gray  locks  of  flowing  hair, 

Two  searching  eyes  outpeer. 

Is  it  a  smile,  or  is  it  a  frown  ? 

Ah  !  Father,  would  it  were  either  one, 

If  only  thou  wert  here. 

On  the  left  I  see  another  face, 
In  antique  cap  of  pleated  lace. 
How  sadly  sweet,  and  blest  ! 
Lone  lie  the  caverns  of  the  heart, 
Slow  drag  the  listless  years  apart, 
Since  she  laid  down  to  rest. 

Sure,  she  has  something  to  say  to  me, 
Some  thought  she  would  convey  to  me, 
Some  warning,  or  word  of  faith. 
Dear  mother,  speak,  if  you  may,  to  me  ! 
Mute  effort  of  love  !  this  way  to  me 
Comes  not  one  wave  of  breath. 

Between  the  two  hangs  the  old  homestead, 
With  pines  and  elm-trees  overspread. 
How  still  and  solemn  their  shade  ! 
Is  it  the  stillness  of  vacant  death, 
Or  throbbing  life  that  holds  its  breath 
In  memory  of  the  dead  ? 

As  I  gaze,  the  dear  old  home  grows  bright  ; 

The  windows  gleam  with  life  and  light ; 

Feet  move  across  the  floor  ; 

Sweet  faces  peer  through  the  window-pane  ; 

The  buried  years  come  back  again, 

And  I  am  young  once  more. 

What  breath  stirred  up  that  dying  brand, 
And  cast  a  light  on  every  hand, 
To  cheer  my  lonely  room  ? 


56  TE  DEUM  LAUD  AM  US. 

Ah  !  me, — 't  is  gone  with  that  one  gleam, 
And  with  it  fades  my  joyous  dream, 
To  leave  my  soul  in  gloom. 

Fond  dreams  of  faded  joy,  adieu  ! 
I  '11  sit  the  weary  night-watch  through, 
Though  it  be  dark  and  lone. 
Father  in  heaven  !  I  turn  to  thee. 
Light  of  the  lonely  !  cheer  thou  me, 
Until  this  night  be  gone  ! 


TE  DEUM  LAUDAMUS. 

Holy  God,  we  praise  Thy  name  ! 
Lord  of  all,  we  bow  before  Thee  ! 
All  on  earth  Thy  sceptre  claim, 
All  in  heaven  above  adore  Thee  ; 
Infinite  Thy  vast  domain, 
Everlasting  is  Thy  reign. 

Hark  !  the  loud  celestial  hymn 

Angel  choirs  above  are  raising  ! 

Cherubim  and  Seraphim, 

In  unceasing  chorus  praising, 

Fill  the  Heavens  with  sweet  accord  ; 

Holy  !  Holy  !  Holy  Lord  ! 

Lo  !  the  Apostolic  train 
Join,  Thy  sacred  name  to  hallow  ! 
Prophets  swell  the  loud  refrain, 
And  the  white-robed  Martyrs  follow  ; 
And  from  morn  to  set  of  sun 
Through  the  Church  the  song  goes  on. 

Holy  Father,  Holy  Son, 

Holy  Spirit,  Three  we  name  Thee, 

Though  in  essence  only  one 


CHILDREN  AT   THE   CRIB.  57 

Undivided  God  we  claim  Thee  ; 
And  adoring  bend  the  knee, 
While  we  own  the  mystery. 

Thou  art  King  of  Glory,  Christ ! 
Son  of  God,  yet  born  of  Mary  ; 
For  us  sinners  sacrificed, 
And  to  death  a  tributary  ; 
First  to  break  the  bars  of  death, 
Thou  hast  opened  Heaven  to  faith. 

From  Thy  high  celestial  home, 
Judge  of  all,  again  returning, 
We  believe  that  thou  shalt  come 
On  the  dreadful  Doomsday  morning 
When  Thy  voice  shall  shake  the  earth, 
And  the  startled  dead  come  forth. 

Spare  Thy  people,  Lord,  we  pray, 
By  a  thousand  snares  surrounded  ; 
Keep  us  without  sin  to-day  ; 
Never  let  us  be  confounded  ! 
Lo  !  I  put  my  trust  in  Thee  ; 
Never,  Lord,  abandon  me. 


CHILDREN  AT  THE  CRIB. 

A  CHRISTMAS   HYMN. 

What  lovely  Infant  can  this  be, 
That  in  the  little  crib  I  see  ? 
So  sweetly  on  the  straw  it  lies, 
It  must  have  come  from  Paradise. 

Who  is  that  Lady  kneeling  by, 
And  gazing  on  so  tenderly  ? 
Oh,  that  is  Mary  ever  blest  ; 
How  full  of  joy  her  holy  breast  ! 


58  THEREIN 

What  Man  is  that  who  seems  to  smile, 
And  look  so  blissful  all  the  while  ? 
'T  is  holy  Joseph,  good  and  true, 
The  Infant  makes  him  happy  too. 

What  makes  the  crib  so  bright  and  clear? 
What  voices  sing  so  sweetly  here  ? 
Ah  !  see  behind  the  window-pane 
The  little  angels  looking  in  ! 

Who  are  those  people  kneeling  down, 
With  crooked  sticks,  and  hands  so  brown  ? 
The  shepherds.     On  the  mountain  top 
The  little  angels  woke  them  up. 

The  ox  and  ass,  how  still  and  mild 
They  stand  beside  the  Holy  Child  ! 
His  little  body  underneath 
They  warm  so  kindly  with  their  breath. 

Hail,  holy  cave  !  though  dark  thou  be, 
The  world  is  lighted  up  from  thee  ! 
Hail,  Holy  Babe  !  creation  stands, 
And  moves  upon  Thy  little  hands. 


THEREIN. 

A   SONG. 

I  know  a  valley  fair  and  green, 

Wherein,  wherein 
A  clear  and  winding  brook  is  seen  ; 

Therein 

The  village  street  stands  in  its  pride, 
With  a  row  of  elms  on  either  side, 

Therein. 
They  shade  the  village  green. 


THEREIN.  59 

In  the  village  street  there  is  an  inn, 

Wherein,  wherein 
The  landlord  sits  in  bottle-green, 

Therein. 

His  face  is  like  a  glowing  coal, 
And  his  paunch  is  like  a  swelling  bowl. 

Therein 
Good  ale  is  stored,  I  ween. 

The  inn  has  a  cosy  fireside, 

Wherein,  wherein 
The  huge  andirons  stand  astride, 

Therein. 

When  the  air  is  raw  of  a  winter's  night, 
The  fire  on  the  hearth  shines  bright 

Therein. 
'T  is  sweet  to  be  therein. 

The  landlord  sits  in  his  old  arm-chair 

Therein,  therein  ; 
And  the  blaze  shines  through  his  yellow  hair 

Therein. 

There  cometh  Lawyer  Bickerstith, 
And  the  village  doctor,  and  the  smith. 

Therein 
Full  many  a  tale  they  spin. 

They  talk  of  fiery  Sheridan's  raid, 

Therein,  therein  ; 
And  hapless  Baker's  ambuscade, 

Therein  ; 

The  grip  by  which  Grant  throttled  Lee, 
And  Sherman's  famous  march  to  the  sea. 

Therein 
Great  fights  are  fought  again. 


6O  THEREIN. 

The  landlord  has  a  daughter  fair 

Therein,  therein. 
In  ringlets  falls  her  glossy  hair 

Therein. 

When  they  speak  in  her  ear  she  tosses  her  head  ; 
When  they  look  in  her  eye  she  hangs  the  lid 

Therein. 
She  does  not  care  a  pin. 

I  know  the  maiden's  heart  full  well. 

Therein,  therein 
Pure  thoughts  and  holy  wishes  dwell, 

Therein. 

I  see  her  at  church  on  bended  knee  ; 
And  well  1  know  she  prays  for  me 

Therein. 
Sure,  that  can  be  no  sin. 

Our  parish  church  has  a  holy  priest 

Therein,  therein. 
When  he  sings  the  mass,  he  faces  the  east 

Therein. 

On  Sunday  next  he  will  face  the  west, 
When  Annie  and  I  go  up  abreast, 

Therein, 
And  carry  our  wedding-ring. 

And  when  we  die,  as  die  we  must ; 

Therein,  therein 
The  priest  will  pray  o'er  the  breathless  dust, 

Therein  ; 

And  our  graves  will  be  planted  side  by  side. 
But  the  hearts  that  loved  shall  not  abide 

Therein, 
But  love  in  heaven  again. 


THE   SARATOGA   PINES.  6 1 


THE  SARATOGA  PINES. 

Lo  me  in  the  old  grove  again  ! 

In  sweet  society,  but  not  of  men. 

How  familiar,  yet  how  odd,  to  me 

These  pines  that  round  me  gather  ! 

They  seem  to  know  and  nod  to  me, 

As  they  knew  and  nodded  to  my  Father 

Long  ago. 

He  loved  them  ;  and  I  know 

That  then  they  whispered  in  his  ear 

With  the  same  familiar  confidence 

They  show  me  since. 

The  young  and  giddy  cannot  hear 

What  they  say  ;  for  it  is  only 

To  the  old,  and  lonely, 

The  groves  confide  their  history. 

To  us  they  unlock  the  mystery 

Of  life,  and  death,  and  love,  and  pride, 

That  in  their  dusky  archives  hide. 

I  know  these  relics  of  the  forest  well ; 

I  know  their  speech, 

And  I  can  tell 

What  each  says  to  each 

When  stirred,  and  what  they  think  when  still. 

I  have  seen  them  in  commotion, 

Roused  by  some  tale  of  woe 

Or  wrong,  when  they  swayed  to  and  fro, 

As  when  some  common  strong  emotion 

Urges  a  human  crowd  from  healthful  quiet 

To  passion  and  mad  riot. 

Indignant  then  they  lift  their  boughs  ; 

Sullenly  they  knit  their  brows  ; 


62  THE   SARATOGA   PINES. 

Wild  threats  they  utter  beneath  ; 

Curses  they  mutter  between  their  teeth  ; 

Their  needles  hiss  with  scorn  and  hate  ; 

Their  cones  vibrate, 

And  seem  to  spit  and  spin 

With  the  fury  they  are  in. 

'T  is  the  orator  winds  that  blow, 

The  demagogue  winds,  that  stir  them  so. 

So  terribly  are  they  sometimes  swayed 

That  I  have  been  afraid 

To  sit  below, 

Lest  their  wild  mood  might  end, 

Like  that  of  the  King  of  Macedon 

(Mad  tyrant  on  a  drunken  throne), 

In  the  death  of  a  friend. 

I  have  seen  them  shiver  with  coward  fear 
As  children  do,  of  a  winter's  night, 
When  eagerly  bending  down  to  hear 
A  tale  of  murder,  or  ghost  in  white. 
They  crowd  their  tufted  heads  together, 
Then  start  away  in  sudden  fright, 
And  hither  sway,  and  thither. 
They  would  fly,  if  they  might, 
From  some  grim  presence  in  the  wood 
That  cramps  the  air  with  a  chill  ; — 
A  ghost  perhaps  from  McGregor's  hill, 
That  bodes  no  weal  to  the  neighborhood 
But  always  and  only  ill. 

I  have  seen  them  as  still  as  death  ; 

A  stillness  calm  and  deep, 

Far  stiller  than  any  natural  sleep  ; 

A  perfect  suppression  of  breath  ; 

Life  anchored  in  a  trance  ; 

Thought  gathered  into  a  single  glance, 


THE   SARATOGA   PINES.  63 

And  fixed,  by  a  crystallization 
Which  is  given  to  some,  at  precious  times, 
When  the  love-lightened  spirit  climbs 
To  meet  with  God  in  contemplation. 
Such  is  the  prayer  of  the  trees. 
Oh  !  solemn  the  silence  of  pines  in  prayer  ! 
I  have  seen  them  so  still  I  would  not  dare 
To  whisper,  except  upon  my  knees  ; 
For  I  felt  that  God  was  in  the  grove, 
And  that  man,  beast,  bird,  tree,  flower, 
Are  sheltered  by  one  mighty  power, 
And  one  familiar  love. 

To-day  a  light  air,  born  of  the  calm, 

Moves  eastward,  and  the  boughs  are  stirred, 

And  throb,  like  the  strings  of  a  harpsichord 

When  the  heart  is  feeling  for  a  psalm 

Which  slower  thought  has  not  matured. 

The  inspiration  gathers  slow  ; 

The  notes  at  first  are  shy  and  low  ; 

The  needles,  softly  fluttered, 

Now  fall,  now  rise 

With  a  bashful  enterprise 

That  dies  away  as  soon  as  uttered. 

Yet  hark  !  Now  they  yield  to  the  influence 

Of  the  swelling  breeze  ; 

And,  gathering  confidence 

From  the  fellowship  of  trees, 

The  notes  rise  high  and  strong  ; 

All  fear  is  lost  in  the  soul  of  song  ; 

Flows  out  the  genius  of  the  pine 

In  all  the  forms  that  genius  gives, 

And  every  needle  and  cone  receives 

The  impetus  divine. 

A  lofty  anthem  fills  the  grove  ; 

The  giant  trunks  are  all  inspired  ; 


64  THE   SARATOGA   PINES. 

Each  to  its  inmost  ring  is  fired 
With  love. 

0  God  !  the  grand  old  pine, 
Though  passionate,  is  no  infidel. 
He  knows  Thee  well ; 

And  his  faithful  heart  is  Thine. 

1  love  these  tall  columnal  pines. 

I  grieve  to  see  how  fast  they  're  going, 

And  in  their  place  prim  maples  growing, 

Choked  into  sentiment  by  vines  ; 

Or  elms  thick  set  in  formal  lines. 

These  may  suit  whims  of  modern  wealth 

But  their  life  is  lower  than  the  pine's. 

And  they  lack  its  balmy  health. 

Alas  !  I  name  one  single  change, 

Where  many  things  are  growing  strange. 

Broadway  is  crowded  now  with  faces 

Of  a  type  we  never  knew 

In  the  olden  time.     Only  a  few 

Remain,  like  the  pines,  in  their  old  places. 

Poor  exiles  of  the  heart,  they  wait 

At  home,  to  see  home  emigrate. 

They  feel  their  way  through  the  familiar  street ; 

Anxious  they  search  the  passers-by, 

Yet  with  a  far-off  light  in  the  eye. 

What  they  miss  they  '11  never  meet. 

Their  longing  hearts  cannot  receive 

A  sympathy  they  cannot  give. 

Like  the  pines  they  are  jostled  out 

By  a  younger  growth  that  needs  them  not. 

So  all  life  ends. 

So  pass  old  trees  ;  so  pass  old  friends. 

Yea,  the  great  world  will  have  had  its  day, 

Like  these,  then  pass  away. 

Oh  !  say,  where  all  glides  to  one  night, 


WRETCHED  POVERTY.  65 

What  value  has  fame  in  the  flight  ? 
Brief  life  !    Brief  record  after  death  ! 
Yet  happy  I,  could  this  be  mine  : — 
A  life  as  lofty  as  the  pine, 
And  balmy  as  its  breath. 


WRETCHED  POVERTY. 


Three  lodgers,  gaunt  and  grim, 

Hunger,  and  shame,  and  gloom, 

Inhabit  the  poor  man's  home. 

These  many  years  they  lodge  with  him, 

They  share  his  lot, 

They  occupy  all  that  he  has  got, 

They  board  at  his  table,  they  lie  on  his  couch, 

Before  the  fire  with  him  they  crouch 

To  stir  the  dying  embers  ; 

And  often  they  rake  into  a  blaze 

Some  sleeping  pain, 

And  he  remembers 

The  early  and  innocent  days 

That  cannot  come  again. 

Helpless  to  work,  hopeless  to  think, 

He  has  no  thought, 

He  cares  for  naught 

In  the  whole  wide  world  but  drink. 

Where  is  his  wife  ?     She  lies  prostrate 

Where,  with  an  oath  and  blow,  he  laid  her. 

His  son  ?     Ask  at  the  prison  gate. 

His  daughter  ?    Ask  the  man  that  betrayed  her. 

Where  is  his  faith  ?     It  has  flown. 

To  him  God  and  faith  are  unknown. 


66  WRETCHED  POVERTY. 

Of  friends  in  heaven,  on  earth,  not  one 
Is  left.     He  is  all  alone. 
Here  all  is  bare  and  desolate, 
Here  misery  is  complete. 

Oh  !  there  are  Christian  men  who  know 

Of  all  this  hunger,  and  sin,  and  woe, 

And  find  nothing  to  do. 

They  say  that  nothing  can  be  done. 

In  such  a  case,  by  any  one. 

God's  mercy  !  is  this  true  ? 

Are  they  so  conscience  free  ?  are  you  ? 

II. 

Three  gloomy,  ghostly  shadows,  that  pass 

By  the  poor  man's  hut, 

Look  in  through  the  window  glass 

As  he  looks  out. 

The  first  is  "  Life  without  Faith  "; 

The  second  is  "  Dying  Breath  "; 

And  the  third  is  "  The  Second  Death." 

Sternly  they  look  into  his  eyes 

As  they  go  by  ; 

But  his  heart  of  stone 

Sends  to  heaven  no  groan, 

And,  when  they  are  gone,  no  sigh. 

Alas  !  alas  ! 

What  strange  things  pass 

Beneath  the  wondering  sky  ! 

But,  more  than  doom  of  death,  I  dread 

The  look  of  a  human  eye 

Whence  the  hope  of  heaven  has  fled. 

My  God  !  is  there  no  help  for  this, 

No  remedy  anywhere 

In  human  effort  or  in  grace  ? 


LOVE  WITH  A    GUN.  67 

Say,  must  this  hopelessness 

Needs  end  in  wild  despair  ? 

Can  I  do  nothing  there  ? 

Surely,  mere  want  can  be  relieved, 

A  gloomy  spirit  may  be  brightened, 

Errors  may  be  retrieved, 

A  darkened  mind  can  be  enlightened, 

Cures  have  been  found  for  the  heart's  blindness, 

There  is  a  mighty  force  in  love 

To  melt  and  move, 

Where  love  is  only  human  kindness  ; 

Then  oh  !  what  power  to  beguile 

The  heart,  and  bid  it  live, 

Is  lodged  in  the  light  of  that  infinite  smile 

Which  is  named  grace, 

Which  beams  on  the  Saviour's  face, 

And  which  only  He  can  give  ! 


LOVE  WITH  A  GUN. 

"  Fetch  me  my  gun,  little  woman  ;  quick  ! 
I  go  to  the  woods."     "  Let  it  stand, 
Dear  Uncle  ;  for,  well  I  know,  in  your  hand, 
It  is  more  innocent  than  a  stick  ; 

Ha  !  ha  ! 
More  innocent  than  a  stick." 


"  Give  me  the  gun,  little  Nell,  all  the  same. 
I  go  to  the  woods,  not  to  kill ; 
I  go  to  conquer  a  tyrant  will, 
And  with  love  to  capture  my  game, 

Little  Miss, 
With  love  to  capture  my  game." 


68  LOVE  WITE  A    GUN. 

"  Oh  !  teach  me,  dear  Uncle,  this  exercise  ; 
I  too  would  be  a  huntress  whiles. 
How  grand  !  to  shoot  down  eagles  with  smiles  ; 
And  kill  great  lions  with  my  eyes  ! 

Ha  !  ha  ! 
Kill  lions  with  my  eyes  !  " 

"  Such  gunnery,  girl,  is  unchristian  sport, 
And  argues  cruelty  of  will  ; 
Yea,  though  heedless  beauty  doth  often  kill, 
It  also  may  get  badly  hurt, 

Little  Maid, 
It  also  may  get  hurt. 

"  Then  drive  that  evil  thought  away. 
Fear  to  do  hurt  ;  fear  to  take  harm. 
Our  lives  lean  on  a  genile  arm 
That  loves  to  save,  though  strong  to  slay. 

O,  giant  arm, 
How  strong  to  save  or  slay  ! 


"  Earth, — skies, — are  stored  with  fiery  death  ; 
Vast  magazines  of  mighty  Heaven. 
Yet  earth  is  steady,  skies  move  even  ; 
Safely  we  walk  above,  beneath. 

Strong  love 
Guards  all,  above,  beneath. 

"  'T  is  a  lesson  I  take  to  the  woods  with  me 
Some  fallen  trunk, — a  giant  asleep — 
Holds  my  sleeping  gun,  while  my  watch  I  keep 
For  the  game  that  love  brings  to  me  ; 

Do  you  see  ? 
The  game  love  brings  to  me. 


THE  DA  YS  OF  GENESIS.  69 

"  All  is  silent  at  first.     But  very  soon 

My  friends  of  the  forest  come  stealing  in  ; 
The  robin,  the  crow,  the  woodcock,  the  wren, 
The  rabbit,  the  curious  squirrel,  the  coon  ; 

Stealing  in 
To  look  at  me  and  my  gun. 

"  I  am  King  of  the  woods.     My  throne  is  a  log. 
The  sparrows  peer  into  the  bore  of  my  gun. 
The  squirrels  throw  shells,  in  familiar  fun, 
At  me  their  Monarch,  and  at  my  dog. 

Ha  !  ha  ! 
So  I  rule  with  my  gun  and  my  dog. 

"  And  they  sing,  they  sing  ;  each  sings  in  his  turn 
That  power  is  grand,  when  Love  is  Lord  ; 
And  they  hail  the  fire  divinely  stored, 
With  will  to  bless,  and  force  to  burn  ; 

Gentle  fire, 
Blessing  all,  with  power  to  burn." 


THE   DAYS  OF   GENESIS. 

PROEM. 

Deem  not  these  days  primordial  spanned  by  time. 
Range  not  the  bells  of  Genesis  to  chime 
With  science.     What  are  ages,  years,  or  days 
To  eyes  prophetical,  but  sacred  ways 
To  teach  high  law  and  holy  truth  to  man  ? 
All  life  leads  back  to  Him  who  drew  life's  plan 
Untableted.     Bound  by  one  high  behest, 
The  prophet  ranged  his  tablets  as  he  list. 


7O  THE  DA  YS  OF  GENESIS. 

Creation  was  his  theme  ;  and  from  inspired  tongue 
Burst  this  grand  burden  in  a  solemn  song, 

With  intervals  of  choral  praise  ; 

And  the  intervals  are  days. 

DAY    I. 

In  the  beginning  God  made  heaven  and  earth. 

Void  was  creation  at  its  earliest  birth, 

Lonely  and  dark,  an  ocean  without  shore. 

Perpetual  midnight  brooded  evermore 

Upon  a  waste  of  waters.     The  primeval  sleep 

Of  death  hung  on  the  eyelids  of  the  deep. 

No  life  as  yet.     Blind  forces  drove  or  drew 

By  laws  which  even  dull  inertia  knew. 

Grand  in  his  purposes,  but  all  unused  to  urge, 

A  mighty  Smith  slow  plied  the  kindling  forge. 

"  Be  light !  "   Quick  through  the  world  the  fiat  rang, 

And  wakened  Nature  into  lustre  sprang. 

A  soft  enchantment  flooded  pregnant  space. 

Giving  blind  chaos  body,  itself  bodiless. 

The  eddying  atoms  rolled  in  wreaths  of  light, 

Taking  all  vision  needs  save  only  sight. 

Creation  had  no  eye,  not  yet  were  wrought 

Those  crystal  caves  where  sense  distils  to  thought ; 

But  all  unseen  a  lone  though  luminous  world 

Of  mustering  meteors  into  order  whirled. 

Evening  and  morn,  day  one. 

But  the  mighty  Smith  wrought  on. 

DAY     II. 

Hung  the  deep  heavens  in  shrouds  of  vapor  dressed. 
The  earth  was  blanketed  in  watery  mist. 
Far  overhead,  slow  gathering  in  their  robes, 
The  shapeless  meteors  crystalled  into  globes. 
God  spake  :  Divide,  O  waste  of  waters,  here  ; 
Make  space  for  a  clear  sky  and  a  free  atmosphere. 


THE  DAYS  OF  GENESIS.  /I 

Westward,  ye  heavens,  in  endless  circle  sweep, 

And,  like  a  roof,  arch  in  this  lower  deep  ; 

And  thou,  O  sea,  lapped  in  thy  caves  remain 

Without  a  shore  until  I  speak  again. 

Evening  and  morn.     'T  is  done, 
Yet  the  mighty  Smith  wrought  on. 

DAY  III. 

What  vision  saw  that  wondrous  eve  and  morn 
When  from  the  ocean-bed  the  lands  were  born  ? 
What  mighty  hand  lifted  the  deep  sea  caves, 
And  made  the  islands  bud  above  the  waves  ? 
These  grew  to  continents.     Along  the  ocean  floor 
Deep  currents  spread  the  wastings  of  the  shore 
In  ridges  vast.     Slow  throbbings  of  the  earth 
Upheaving  these,  to  mountain  chains  gave  birth. 
Green  spread  the  grass  and  trees  o'er  the  young 

land. 

Oh  !  gentle  were  the  fingers  of  that  mighty  hand. 
A  third  day's  labor  done, 
But  the  mighty  Smith  wrought  on. 

DAY    IV. 

Now  lift  our  thoughts  to  the  round  heaven  above, 
Where  sun,  moon,  stars  by  law  in  order  move. 
They  mark  our  time.     The  sun  by  day  gives  light, 
A  softer  radiance  rules  the  veiled  night. 
God  made  all  these.     O  Israel,  lend  no  ear 
To  heathen  myths  or  philosophic  sneer. 
Stars  are  not  deities  ;  nor  do  they  draw 
Their  being  from  unlegislated  law. 
Creatures  of  God  are  they  ;  and  Him,  glad  throng 
Of  worshippers,  they  praise  with  waltz  and  song. 
Day  fourth.     A  work  well  done, 
But  the  mighty  Smith  wrought  on. 


72  THE  DAYS  OF  GENESIS. 

DAY   V. 

Oh  !  who  can  chronicle  what  ages  long 

The   woods   have  thrilled   with   winged   love  and 

song  ; 

How  long,  with  threads  of  sunshine  in  their  wake, 
The  gamesome  fish  embroider  stream  and  lake  ? 
And  tell  me,  science,  did  some  'prentice  hand 
Engrave  such  forms  on  the  Silurian  strand, 
Give  warlike  morion  to  the  trilobite, 
And  eyes  that   gleamed  from   cones   of  jewelled 

light  ? 

Vast  is  Thy  work,  O  God,  graded  Thy  plan  ; 
But  high-wrought  types  of  life  with  earliest  life 

began. 

A  fifth  day  come  and  gone, 

But  the  mighty  Smith  wrought  on. 

v 

DAY    VI. 

Said  God  :  Open  thy  womb,  thou  barren  earth  ; 
To  beasts  that  walk,  and  things  that  creep,  give  birth. 
Rallied  red  dust  to  life.     "  'T  is  good,"  the  Maker 

said  ; 

"  Now  from  the  same  dull  mould  let  man  be  made. 
Nature  lacks  nothing  save  a  lawful  lord, 
And  let  him  bear  our  image."     At  the  word 
Stood  man  upon  his  heritage,  soil  made  and  soul. 
Child  of  the  soil,  't  is  his  the  earth  to  rule  ; 
Child,  too,  of  heaven,  to  high  hopes  early  blessed. 
'T  is  his  to  work  with  God,  with  God  to  rest. 

Lo,  the  Smith's  labor  done  ! 

God's  Sabbath  has  begun. 

DAY   VII. 

Blest  is  the  Sabbath-day.     Hushed  is  the  hive 
Of  busy  life.     Now  the  still  heart  may  live. 


NIGHT    WATCHING.  73 

Vanish  the  phantom  forms  of  yesterday, 

And  unreal  living  to  true  life  gives  way. 

God  speaks  to  silent  hearts.     Ah  !  look  and  see 

Beyond  this  near  horizon.     Let  eternity 

Tell  what  is  earth,  and  life,  and  man  ;  and  why 

Creation  creeps  thus  low  beneath  a  lofty  sky  ; 

And  wherefore  that  slow  week  of  work  was  blessed  ; 

And  why  it  ended  in  a  Sabbath's  rest. 

O  Christ  !  I  wait  the  dawn. 

Bring  my  slow  Sabbath  on  ! 


NIGHT  WATCHING. 

The  clock  strikes  Nine.     I  sink  to  rest 
Upon  a  soft  and  bolstered  bed. 
Jesus,  what  pillow  held  Thy  head  ! 
What  couch  Thy  breast  ! 

The  clock  strikes  Ten.     With  sleepless  eye 
I  stare  into  a  spaceless  gloom. 
Come  hither,  wandering  soul  ;  stay  home. 
Voices  are  nigh. 

Eleven.     Peace  !  needless  monitor. 

Oh  !  when  the  heart  looks  through  her  tears, 

To  gaze  upon  the  eternal  years, 

What  is  an  hour  ? 

'T  is  midnight.     No  ;  't  is  holy  noon. 
Love  and  sweet  duty  make  the  day. 
Night  rules,  with  these  two  suns  away  ; 
Night,  and  no  moon. 

Another  hour,  and  yet  no  sleep. 
The  darkness  glows  with  solemn  light. 
How  full  of  language  is  the  night  ! 
And  life  how  deep  ! 


74  THE  TRAMP. 

Already  Two  o'clock  !     Well,  well  ; 
Myself  and  I  have  met  at  last, 
After  long  absence  ;  and  the  past 
Has  much  to  tell. 

Ring  out  !     Ring  out  !     My  watch  I  keep. 
O  night,  I  feel  thy  sacred  power  ! 
How  crowded  is  each  holy  hour 
Borrowed  from  sleep  ! 

One,  Two,  Three,  Four  !     Ye  speak  to  ears 
That  hear  but  heed  not  how  ye  roll. 
The  hours  that  measure  for  the  soul 
Are  spaced  by  tears. 

Strikes  Five.     Night's  solemn  shroud  of  crape 
Begins  to  fill  with  threads  of  gray  ; 
And,  stealing  on  those  threads  away, 
My  joys  escape. 

O  stay  with  me  !     I  fear  the  light, 
With  all  its  sins,  and  gay  unrest. 
Sweeter  the  calm  and  conscious  breast 
Of  holy  night. 


THE  TRAMP. 

I  know  a  little  maiden 

Whose  voice  is  soft  and  low, 

But  whose  feet,  like  the  feet  of  a  tramp, 
Are  always  on  the  go. 

Tramp  !  tramp  !  tramp  !  tramp  ! 

Up  and  down  for  evermore, 
On  through  the  streets,  up  by  the  steps, 

Up  to  some  garret  floor. 


THE  TRAMP.  75 

Woe,  gazing  out  to  that  sweet  face, 

Forgets  the  inward  pain, 
And,  chastened  by  those  calm  blue  eyes, 

Sin  worships  God  again. 

And  reverently  to  his  iron  brow 

The  prisoner  lifts  his  hand, 
And  on  the  hopeless  child  of  shame 

Gleams  light  from  the  happy  land. 

So  up  and  down,  and  in  and  out, 
Through  alleys  dark  and  narrow, 

Mi-lady  Bounty  goes  about 
In  search  of  sin  and  sorrow. 

I  said  :  "  Are  you  the  wandering  Jew  ? 

Is  this  a  spell,  a  doom  ? 
Are  you  bound  to  travel  without  rest 

Until  the  Saviour  come  ? 

"What  need  of  so  much  tramping? 

Wise  hearts  will  rest,  and  wait. 
Where  too  much  is  given  to  loving, 

Is  not  this  to  dissipate  ! 

"Know,  'charity  begins  at  home,' 

And  by  surcharge  decreases." 
But  those  burning  little  feet 

Overtrod  my  exegesis. 

Her  only  answer  was  a  smile, 

So  sweetly  and  serenely  gay 
That  never,  under  cloudless  sky, 

Reigned  such  untroubled  day. 


76  THE  TRAMP, 

And  I,  ashamed  of  questioning 
Where  grace  had  all  decided, 

Stood  from  the  way,  and  blessed  the  light 
By  which  those  feet  were  guided. 

Anothor  time  I  said  :  "  Dear  maid, 
This  thing  needs  explanation. 

To  every  Christian  soul  God  gives 
Some  definite  vocation. 

"  Now  where  is  yours  ?  in  the  great  world, 
Or  where  the  cloister  lilies  grow  ? " 

Right  merrily  she  laughed,  and  said  ; 
"  Pray,  tell  me,  sir,  if  you  know." 

What  could  I  say  ?  What  can  I  say  ? 

No  vow,  no  veil,  no  convent  grate 
Guards  either  busy  eyes  or  feet, 

But  free  as  air  they  circulate. 

Yet,  somehow  fenced,  that  gentle  smile 

Admits  no  rude  intrusion. 
'T  is  love's  outlook  from  a  cloistered  heart 

That  rules  its  own  seclusion. 

So  I  leave  her  to  her  own  daylight ; 

But  my  soul  bounds  betimes 
When  those  sunny  eyes  go  by  with  smiles, 

And  those  roving  shoes  sing  rhymes. 

And  this  is  my  faith  :  Can  I  but  make 

My  way  to  the  golden  door, 
I  shall  know  the  beat  of  two  busy  feet 

Upon  the  spirit  floor. 


THE  UNKNOWABLE.  77 


THE  UNKNOWABLE. 

They  tell  us  God  can  never  be  made  known  ; 
That  every  thought  of  Him  we  try  to  frame 
Must  of  necessity  be  false  ;  His  august  name 
Itself  out  of  gross  ignorance  is  grown. 
He  is  the  Unknowable  ;  He  has  no  throne  ; 
Religion  is  the  soul's  midnight,  no  more  ; 
We  can  but  bow  before  a  darkened  door 
Which  meets  all  worship  with  a  hollow  groan. 

If  this  were  so,  how  chill,  how  drear,  how  bare 
Would  this  our  life  be  left  !     A  stifled  cry  ; 
A  star  astray  in  space  without  a  sky  ; 
A  sky  dismantled  and  without  a  star  ; 
Wings  fluttering  wild  against  a  prison  bar  ; 
Nothing  this  side  to  which  the  heart  can  cling. 
Nothing  beyond  to  which  a  grief  can  sing, 
And  in  sweet  song  forget  its  load  of  care. 

Thanks  to  the  gleaming  skies  !  it  is  not  so — 
This  undigested  prate  of  learned  quackery, 
Heart's  night-scare,  honest  reason's  mockery. 
Back,  phantom,  to  the  fog  where  thou  didst  grow  ! 
Here  thou  art  naught.     My  God  I  know  ; 
His  breath  I  feel  ;  His  voice  I  hear  ; 
He  has  been  with  me  always,  still  is  near, 
Nearer  than  aught  vain  science  hath  to  show. 

• 

I  knew  Thee,  Lord,  before  myself  I  knew. 

My  soul's  first  acquisition  was  the  sense  of  want. 

I  struggled  into  life's  arena  with  a  pant. 

My  eager  hands  into  the  void  I  threw,  . 

Hoping  to  draw  Thee  into  closer  view  ; 

And,  when  I  found  my  feeble  efforts  fail, 


78  THE  UNKNOWABLE. 

Self-conscious  made  by  failure,  with  a  wail 
I  claimed  the  bliss  I  could  not  reach  unto. 

Always  to  Love  divine  my  love  laid  claim. 
I  saw  it  gleaming  through  my  Mother's  eyes, 
Heaven  couched  within  those  lower  skies, 
Vailing  itself  indeed  from  sensual  aim, 
Yet  lighting  so  their  domes  with  depth  of  flame 
That  finite  love  drew  back  into  the  boundless, 
And  the  approaching  Infinite,  though  soundless, 
A  conscious  presence  to  my  soul  became. 

I  claim  an  inborn  sense  of  boundless  power. 
Ah  !  soon  I  learned  that  I  myself  was  weak, 
Helpless  to  take  what  my  high  heart  did  seek. 
The  consciousness  of  less  grew  from  the  vast  MORE  ; 
Bounds  rose  where  spread  the  unlimited  before. 
The  knowledge  thus  acquired  of  force  finite 
Threw  my  soul  back  upon  her  first  inlight 
To  feed  a  sense  which  hungered  to  adore. 

Then  came  the  light  of  faith,  boon  rich  and  rare, 
Appealing  both  to  insight  and  to  outer  sense, 
And  making  both  to  breed  a  rich  experience. 
The  earliest  altar  where  my  faith  took  air 
Itself  was  nothing  but  a  knee  ;  yet  there 
I  bowed  my  knees,  and  found  a  sacred  throne  : 
And,  strong  in  faith,  as  at  an  altar  stone, 
Through  a  sweet  priestess  offered  my  first  prayer. 

Know  Thee  !  O  God,  the  tale  is  all  too  old, 
How  much  we  know.     Earth,  air,  skies  ring 
With  Thee.     All  creatures  band  in  choirs  to  sing 
Of  Thee.     The  Bible  gleams  like  burning  gold 
Revealing  Thee.     Gray  history  to  faith  foretold, 
Ages  ago  by  twilight,  Thy  grand  scheme 


LEAVE  TO  LOVE.  79 

A  world  of  ruined  sinners  to  redeem, 
Showing  Thyself  to  man  in  human  mould. 

We  know  Thee  infinitely  mighty,  free,  good,  sage, 
Just,  faithful,  merciful,  long  patient  to  endure, 
Changeless,    and   passionless.      These   marks   are 

sure. 

Time  takes  naught,  adds  naught  to  Thy  heritage  ; 
Gives  to  Thy  life  no  growth  ;  full  is  Thy  foliage. 
Oh  !  say  ;  in  all  the  vast  skies  overarch, 
Is   there   so   much   to   know,  so  much  rewarding 

search, 
As  Sacred  Science  shows  on  her  broad  page  ? 

O  God  !  make  thou  me  wise,  and  truly  wise  ; 
Not  cyphering  destinies  by  starry  courses, 
Building  eternal  laws  on  chemic  forces, 
To  molecules  reducing  throbbing  mysteries  ; 
But  give  me  wings  to  range  through  higher  skies. 
Teach  me  that  science  of  which  Thou  art  sun  ; 
Oh  !  Light  so  early  given,  so  surely  known, 
Surpassing  my  weak  sight,  yet  glistening  in  my 
•eyes. 


LEAVE  TO  LOVE. 

A    PRAYER. 

They  say  that  she  is  an  idol, 

And  that  my  heart  is  wild, 

And  they  seek  to  measure  and  bridle 

My  love  for  my  child. 

A  reflection  only,  not  feature, 

Of  that  beauty  which  I  should  adore, 

They  say  that  I  equal  this  creature 

To  the  Creator,  and  more. 


80  LEAVE  TO  LOVE. 

They  wonder  Thou  dost  not  remove  her 
And  take  her  away  from  me. 
Lord  !  I  ask  leave  to  love  her, 
And  promise  to  love  her  in  Thee. 

In  her  my  fond  heart  traces 

A  life's  geography, 

The  mapping  of  dear  loved  faces 

That  once  were  a  world  to  me. 

My  quickened  thought  through  her  replaces 

Each  well  remembered  line  ; 

And,  save  the  beauty  and  softened  graces, 

(They  tell  me)  much  is  mine. 

My  homestead  she.     In  her  I  recover 

My  father's  legacy. 

Lord  !   I  ask  leave  to  love  her, 

And  promise  to  love  her  in  Thee. 

Lord  !  Thou  dost  scatter  the  morning  rays 

Into  needles  of  gold  and  white. 

Thy  stars  at  evening  cleave  their  ways, 

One  by  one,  through  the  thin  twilight, 

Till,  like  a  target,  the  sky  is  riven 

With  thick-strewn  wounds  of  light. 

I  read  of  Thee,  God,  in  this  crowded  heaven — 

Grand  volumes  of  day  and  night. 

So  I  read  in  my  girl  of  the  God  above  her 

Who  gave  the  dear  gift  to  me. 

Lord  !  I  ask  leave  to  love  her, 

And  promise  to  love  her  in  Thee. 

O  Christ,  art  Thou  not  truly  human  ; 
The  child  of  Mary,  though  divine  ; 
Drawing  full  manhood  from  a  woman  ? 
Yea,  that  sweet  life  gave  mould  to  Thine, 


LEAVE  TO  LOVE.  8 1 

Thy  heart,  all  conscious  of  its  kind, 
Throbs  with  our  throbbing  nature, 
Yet  never  ranges  Heaven  behind 
Or  underneath  the  creature. 
So  I  love  my  child  ;  but  far  before  her, 
My  God,  Thou  art  near  to  me  ! 
I  would  not,  I  do  not  adore  her  ; 
Give  me  leave  to  love  her  in  Thee  ! 


Two  eyes  look  out  from  a  photograph 

Two  eyes  look  down  on  me  ; 

Since  they  can  love,  since  they  can  laugh, 

Can  they  not  also  see  ? 

Often  God  speaks  through  the  young. 

May  not  this  picture  have  a  tongue 

To  speak  to  me, 

And  solve  my  doubts  ?  I  bend  my  ear. 

I  listen.     Naught  can  I  hear. 

No  oracle  is  there. 

God  sends  no  answer  to  my  prayer. 

Is  she  an  idol  ?     I  fear,  I  fear 

My  love  is  not  lawful. 

Oh  !  't  would  be  awful 

To  take  my  death  from  one  so  dear  ! 

Go  deep,  my  soul,  if  thou  wouldst  keep  her, 

And  give  thy  conscience  rest. 

Down  to  the  centre  of  thy  breast  ! 

Deeper  !  down  deeper  ! 

ANSWER    TO    THE    PRAYER. 

"  Wilt  love  thy  child  for  her  true  good, 
Or  for  thine  own  delight  ? 
Wilt  fetter  her  young  womanhood, 
Make  her  thy  satellite  ? 


82  LEAVE  TO  LOVE. 

I  am  sole  centre  of  her  orbit, 
The  guidance  of  her  life  is  mine  ; 
I  give  thee  no  leave  to  absorb  it 
With  a  sponge's  love  into  thine." 
Lord  !  take  her  ;  keep  her  ;  lead  her  ;  move  her  ; 
Her  path  is  free. 
I  only  ask  leave  to  love  her 
In  Thee. 

"  And  if  I  give  her  to  another, 
Knot  her  by  marriage  vow 
Stronger  than  claim  of  father  or  mother  ; 
Wilt  take  thy  place  calmly  now  ? — 
In  lieu  of  the  early  ties  that  bound  her, 
See  a  new  hearth-stone  glow, 
New  faces  close  in  love  around  her, 
Nearer  and  dearer  than  thou  ?  " 
New  faces  may  gather,  new  homes  may  cover 
The  heart  that  once  leaned  on  me  ; 
God  keep  her  !     I  ask  but  to  love  her 
In  Thee. 

"  And  if  I  call  her  maiden  heart 
To  solitude  and  prayer, 
Teach  her  to  choose  the  better  part 
With  Mary  ?     Wilt  leave  her  there  ? 
With  frequent  footstep  will  thou  come 
On  her  silent  life  to  intrude  ? 
Or  seek  to  move  near  to  thy  worldly  home 
The  walls  of  her  solitude  ? 
And  thus,  sly  hypocrite,  recover 
Thine  Indian  gift  to  me  ?  " 
Lord  !  no  !     I  only  ask  to  love  her 
In  Thee. 

"  And  if  I  choose  to  paralyze 
Her  life  while  it  is  young  ; 


LEAVE  TO  LOVE.  83 

Close  to  the  light  those  speaking  eyes, 
And  muffle  that  sweet  tongue  ? 
Wilt  thou  rebel  ?     'T  is  I  that  gave. 
Mine  is  it  to  recall." 

Nay,  Lord  !  I  know  Thee  strong  to  save. 
Take  her  to  Thee  !     Take  all  ! 
My  tears  shall  water  the  grass  that  grows  over 
All  the  world  held  of  me. 
Yet,  near  or  far,  give  me  leave  to  love  her 
In  Thee  ! 


I  looked  at  the  picture.     A  smile  of  surprise 
Lighted  up  with  sudden  glow. 
It  mounted  to  the  sunny  eyes, 
And  to  the  bower  of  curls  that  rise 
Above  her  brow. 

Her  arms  she  stretched  out  wide  and  free, 
Like  a  bird  that  would  fly  to  me. 
But  here  the  beautiful  vision  ended  ; 
The  arms  remained  extended 
As  if  hanging  to  a  tree  ; 
The  lips,  so  lately  gleesome  and  glad, 
Grew  as  suddenly  sad  ; 
I  saw  the  fair  head  stooping, 
And  the  eyelids  drooping, 
Like  those  of  the  Man  of  woe. 
But  I  know ;  but  I  know, 
However  the  knowledge  came  to  me, 
That  I  have  leave,  Lord,  to  love  her, — 
In  Thee. 


84          THE  IMMACULATE   CONCEPTION. 


THE  IMMACULATE  CONCEPTION. 


Fair  as  the  moon  by  night, 

And  brighter  than  the  noon-day  sun, 

Sweet  Mary  stands  alone 

In  a  flood  of  light. 

From  her  creation  ; 

From  life's  first,  earliest  vibration  ; 

From  that  first  feeble  palpitation 

Of  a  new  life  unseen,  unknown, 

Except  by  God  alone, 

She  bore  no  mark  of  the  primal  curse. 

No  taint  from  any  source  ; 

No  stain  of  sin 

Wrought  by  herself,  nor  inbred  and  original, 

Marred  that  sweet  body,  fair  and  virginal, 

Or  the  pure  soul  within. 

In  this  beauty  of  her  state 

She  stands  the  glory  of  her  race, 

Pure,  holy,  innocent,  immaculate, 

And  full  of  grace. 

In  every  quality  of  soul 

A  matchless  perfect  whole  ; 

In  every  line  and  feature 

A  faultless,  though  a  finite,  creature. 

In  truth  't  is  easy  to  believe 

In  this  exemption  of  Christ's  holy  mother 

From  the  birth-sin  engendered  by  the  other, 

The  first  and  guilty  Eve. 

It  was  a  gift  that  could  be  given 

As  readily  as  when,  at  the  font, 


THE  IMMACULATE   CONCEPTION.          85 

The  water  falls  on  the  infant's  front, 
And  the  pardon  falls  from  Heaven. 
It  was  a  simple,  unconditioned  fact, 
With  only  one  party  to  the  act. 
All-powerful  was  God  to  render  ; 
Helpless  sweet  Mary's  soul  to  hinder. 
Hail  Mary  !    From  thy  orient 
As  spotless  as  the  snow  ! 
And  hail  the  grace  which  did  prevent, 
And  made  thee  so  ! 

ii. 

There  is,  according  to  my  thought, 
A  harder  problem  here,  which  brings 
My  uttermost  imaginings 
To  naught. 

When  I  recall  that  saintly  life 
Of  Mary,  mother,  daughter,  wife, — 
And  when  I  try  to  trace 
Its  golden  thread, 
As  if  the  perfect  web  lay  spread 
Before  my  face  ; 
When,  above  all, 
I  set  me  to  recall 
Her  life-long  perseverance 
In  spotless  innocence  and  moral  beauty, 
By  the  working  of  her  own  sweet  will  ; 
Her  close  adherence 

To  God's  dear  love,  and  prayer  and  daily  duty  ; 
Through  doubt  and  sorrow  faithful  still  ; 
Perfect  in  all  ; — 
When  I  recall 
The  matchless  merit 
Of  that  sweet  spirit, 

Aided  indeed  by  grace,  but  always  free  : — 
Oh,  then  't  is  hard  for  me, 


86  BE  A  UTY. 

All  sick  with  error, 

To  master  my  surprise  ; 

To  lift  my  eyes 

From  the  dark  mirror 

Where  my  own  life  reflected  lies 

Up  to  that  radiant  zodiac 

Where,  like  the  moon  in  silver  light 

Around  the  darkened  globe, 

She  moved  through  life  in  her  own  sweet  track, 

In  her  own  white  robe, 

Queen  of  the  night. 

0  Mary,  full  of  grace, 
Help  me  (for  I  am  weak) 
To  follow  in  thy  trace  ! 

Thy  prayers,  dear  Mother,  I  bespeak. 
If  thou  wilt  plead  for  this, 

1  cannot  miss 

To  find,  some  day,  the  home  I  seek. 


BEAUTY. 

Lady,  thou  art  wondrous  fair  ; 

Thy  features  beam  with  life  that  speaks  ; 

An  aureole  doth  glorify  thy  hair, 

And  turns  to  golden  red  on  lip  and  cheeks. 

Yet, — now  I  look  again  with  care, 

A  better  judgment  tells  me  :  No, 

The  soul  of  beauty  is  left  out  somewhere. 

It  was  a  passing  dream.     Go  !  go  ! 

Thou  art  not  beautiful.     I  cannot  bear 

So  bright  a  vision  undeveloped  so. 

Stay  !     Shall  I  tell  thee,  lady,  what  dost  lack  ? 
What  turns  into  deformity  thy  grace  ; 


A    LETTER.  87 

Beclouds  the  sunshine  of  thy  face, 
And  makes  thy  lilies  black  ? 
The  God  of  beauty  better  knows, 
Who  planted  all  thy  garden  grows 
Of  beauty.     Ask  Him  in  thy  prayer. 
Perhaps  too  little  sky,  want  of  pure  air  ; 
Thou  hast  allowed  the  damp  of  earth  to  rise, 
And  quench  the  earlier  glory  of  thine  eyes. 

Lady,  God  made  thee  lovely,  and  for  love  ; 
In  crystal  waters  drowned  thy  native  stain  ; 
With  light  adorned  thy  soul,  a  gleaming  grove 
Of  faith,  and  golden  hopes,  that  might  detain 
Angelic  eyes  to  wonder  ;  shaped  thy  hands 
To  works  of  piety,  and  charitable  toil, 
And  sweet  obedience  to  thy  Lord's  commands. 
Thou  seemedst  like  blest  Mary  for  a  while. 
Alas  !  now  all  is  gone  that  was  grace  given. 
Coarse  gems  displace  the  jewelry  of  Heaven. 


A  LETTER 

TO    ALL    WHOM    IT    MAY    CONCERN. 

ALBANY,  Feb.  22,  1883. 
GENTLEMEN  : — 
Bravely  you  've  done  your  work,  and  bravely  shall 

be  paid 

In  such  coin  as  you  value  and  best  know. 
Go,  gentlemen,  report  to  the  constituent  trade 
That  sent  you  here,  and  take  your  quid  pro  quo. 
Assembled  bondsmen  of  the  brewery  and  still, 
Ye  've  done  your  work  with  skill ; 
This  meed  your  masters  will  accord  you. 
They  who  have  seen  in  secret  your  good-will 


88  A   LETTER. 

Will  openly  reward  you  ; 
In  sweet  remembrance  they  '11  embalm  you. 
What  matter  now  if,  veiled  behind  the  dark, 
God's  grand  election  day,  for  this  day's  dirty  work, 
Should  damn  you  ? 

Go    to    your   homes  !     Fires   there   maybe    shine 

bright. 

There  's  comfort  in  their  warm  and  cheerful  glow. 
Despair  broods  over  many  a  heart  to-night. 
Cold  creeps  the  wind  o'er  many  a  hearth  ye  know. 
Ah  !   what  will  light  the  scowl  on  that  dark  brow  ? 
Oh  !  who  will  drive  the  demon  from  that  door  ? 
Who  will  compensate  for  that  parent's  woe  ? 
Take    from    remembrance    that  fierce   oath,  that 

blow, 

Which  struck  a  wife  and  mother  to  the  floor  ? 
Who  will  give  clothing,  who  give  needed  bread 
To  that  pale,  starved,  and  shivering  multitude, 
Unsheltered,  unbefriended  clusters  of  childhood 
Made  orphans,  not  by  death,  but  a  death-dealing 

trade  ? 

Your  votes  to-day  have  given  to  some  new  life  ; 
But  grief  to  many  more.     Wait !     Watch  ! 
To  see  what  yet  may  come  to  your  door  latch. 
Look  to  that  child  of  yours  !     Look  to  that  wife  ! 
Think  you  the  grass  will  always  grow  so  green 
Beside  your  walk,  yet  leave  the  walk  so  clean  ? 
Will  judgment,  held  by  mercy  always  stay  ? 
Your  Honors  have  made  good  men  grieve  to-day 
That  wish  no  grief  to  you  save  to  heal  sin  ; 
Yet,  for  all  earth  owns,  would  not  these  be  in 
The  blood  trail  tracking  from  your  council  hall. 
O  God,  Thy  ways  are  holy  ! 
"  All  silently  and  slowly 
Thy  mills  do  grind,  but  grind  exceeding  small." 


A   LETTER.  89 

Go  smiling  to  your  homes.     If  Christians,  thence 

to  church. 

First,  smooth  your  faces  to  devotion  at  the  porch  ; 
Then  enter  boldly.     Leave  your  true  selves  outside 
With  your  constituencies,  gain,  ambition,  pride, 
Masked  falsehood,  fear  of  man,  intrigue's  subtended 

torch,     ., 

The  cant  professional  which  hides  the  mind, 
The  honest  brow  before,  the  open  palm  behind. 
Leave  outside  also  your  time-honored  saw  : 
"  Heaven  has  no  rights  that  reach  to  civil  law." 
Meet  God  with  cleanly  faces  ;  cover  the  dirt 
Upon  your  bosoms  with  a  spotless  shirt ; 
And  as  ye  kneel  before  the  altar  there, 
Breathe  whiffs  of  pepperminted  praise  and  prayer. 
Talk  freely  of  amending  ; — will  do  better  ;  ah  ! 
For  your  dear  lives  suppress  one  inconvenient  fact. 
Say  nothing  of  that  "  Act  entitled  an  Act 
To  amend  an  Act  entitled  an  Act,  et  cetera." 
Say  not  that  your  most  honorable  endorsement 
(When  once  the  Honorable  Senate  shall  concur, 
And  his  high  Excellency  the  Governor) 
Has  put  a  law  of  mercy  past  enforcement  ; 
That  now  no  longer  Officers  of  a  City 
May  answer  to  a  Nation's  cry  for  pity  ; 
But  only  secret  scouts  can  tell  aright 
Why  Sunday  windows  gleam  with  lurid  light. 

Go  home  till  Monday,  and  to  your  Masters  tell 
How  well  ye  wrought,  and  give  in  your  week's  bill. 
But  oh  !  be  sure  that  pens  are  taking  notes 
Where  conscience  has  no  price,  and  hell  no  votes  ; 
Where  legislation  rules  that  interest  cannot  shape, 
Where  codes  are  made  to  bind,  not  to  escape. 
Ay  !  there  may  come  a  day,  even  here  on  earth, 
When  your  repeal's  repeal  shall  thunder  forth  ; 


Cp  TRUE   LOVE. 

When  traders  that  resented  all  restriction, 

Would  have  no  limits  to  their  greed  though  largely 

granted, 

Shall  have  no  more  allotted,  but  be  hunted, 
Like  wolves  by  forest  law,  to  interdiction. 
God  grant  relief  !     Come  gracious  revolution  ! 
The  thunderbolt  brings  rain  as  well  as  retribution. 
Valete  ! 

JOHN  BIRD,  of  Albany. 


TRUE  LOVE. 

Two  lovers  made  love  to  Beauty, 
Lord  Sentiment  and  loyal  Duty. 
The  first  gazed  wildly  into  the  skies 
Which  smiled  through  Beauty's  eyes, 
And,  forward  made  by  lawless  fire, 
And  heedless  to  her  deep  abhorring, 
Seized  the  queen  rudely  by  her  attire, 

Now  chiding,  now  imploring. 
But  Duty  watched  her  lily  hand, 
Content  to  die  at  her  command, 

Content  to  live  adoring. 

Then  came  to  my  soul  a  revealing — 
That  fealty  is  better  than  feeling. 
For  as  Nature  throws  aside  her  cloak 
When  the  north  frost  is  broke, 
And  steps  into  the  summer, 
So  Beauty,  changing  humor, 
Stepped  smiling  from  her  virgin  throne, 
And  stood  revealed  in  golden  zone, 
With  her  mantle  fallen  from  her. 


THE    CHRISTIAN  MUSE.  9! 

And,  in  the  glow  of  a  far  light 
That  gleamed  through  the  tissues  of  starlight, 
She  showed  me,  close  folded  to  her  breast, 
Meek  Duty,  a  cherished  guest, 

With  his  head  on  her  bosom  lying. 
Came  then  a  Voice,  like  the  coo  of  a  dove  : 
"  Who  dies  for  me  shall  be  my  love, 

And  find  his  life  in  dying  !  " 


THE   CHRISTIAN   MUSE. 


I  said  to  my  Muse  :  Oh,  sing  ! 

And  she  sang  all  day. 

She  summoned  to  her  fairy  ring 

Each  grand,  or  strange,  or  beautiful  thing, 

As  fancy  or  feeling  led  the  way. 

All  nature  shows  of  sight  and  sound 

Into  some  new  wreath  she  deftly  wound, 

Then  cast  aside  in  changeful  play 

As  fast  as  found. 

She  sang  how  the  bickering  sparrows  meet, 

When  snow  brings  famine  to  the  street  ; 

How  they  wrangle  together  like  wrangling  men  ; 

How  they  start,  and  flutter,  and  light  again, 

Till  suddenly  all  are  gone. 

She  heard  the  wind  whisper  the  pines  to  sleep. 

Her  ear  caught  the  water-fall's  rush  and  leap  ; 

Then,  sprinkled  in  through  the  monotone, 

Came  grace  notes  in  allegro, 

'T  was  the  brook  as  he  danced,  with  airy  ease, 

From  the  foot  of  the  fall,  over  many  a  row 

Of  pebbly  keys, 

To  marry  the  lake  below. 


92  THE   CHRISTIAN  MUSE. 

Round  lips  they  lifted  to  salute 
The  pressure  of  his  velvet  foot. 
She  sang  of  all  that  nature  gives 
To  field-flowers,  or  the  forest  leaves. 
All  memories  into  music  grew, 
And  floated  by  in  swift  review. 
But  under  all,  and  all  above, 
And  woven  through,  and  all  around, 
With  every  wreath  of  sight,  or  sound, 
She  sang  thy  praise,  creative  Love. 

ii. 

I  said  to  my  Muse  :  Oh,  sing  ! 

Sing  of  the  silent  night  ; 

For  silence  is  my  delight. 

Let  silence,  holy  silence,  bring 

Her  serenades  to  charm  my  heart 

With  supersensual  art. 

Silence  has  waves  that  flood  the  ear, 

Yet  stir  not  the  coarse  atmosphere  ; 

A  minstrelsy  all  soft  and  low, 

Such  as  the  minstrel  Seraphs  know, 

When  intuitions  like  far  whispers  steal 

Upon  the  hours, 

And  hermit  souls  are  made  to  thrill 

With  unaccustomed  powers. 

When  evening  drops  a  kindly  veil 

Over  the  tired  eye  ; 

When  the  book  is  laid  down  with  a  weary  sigh  ; 

When  vulgar  habit,  and  the  low  real, 

Make  room  for  the  perfect  and  ideal  ; 

"T  is  then,  dear  Lyra,  thou  comest  to  me 

With  all  thy  bodiless  company, — 

Eyes  myriad,  that  come  and  go  ; 

All  beautiful  are  they,  with  the  glow 

Of  truth  shining  through  mystery. 


THE   CHRISTIAN  MUSE,  93 

Then,  with  the  witchery  of  thine  art, 
Thou  layest  thy  fingers  on  my  heart. 
Full  is  it  of  most  tremulous  strings, 
And  their  vibration  would  unman  me 
With  an  excess  of  feeling, 
Save  that  the  air  is  full  of  wings 
That  fan  me, 
And  that  thy  touch  is  healing. 

0  night  !  like  prophecy  thou  fallest  on  me, 
Visions  of  truth  revealing. 

The  skies  never  gleam  through  the  mist  of  light 

So  grand,  so  beautiful,  so  clear, 

To  thought  so  full,  to  hope  so  near, 

As  they  show  in  the  unmantled  night. 

Sing  on  !  my  winged  Maid,  sing  on  ! 

Sing  out  !  sing  out  ! 

Now  you  and  I  are  all  alone 

In  fellowship  with  airy  thought. 

Then  from  her  swelling  throat 

There  burst  a  flood  of  melody. 

Ah  !  well  a  day  ! 

Ask  not  the  Poet  to  repeat 

The  revelations  which  to  night  belong. 

The  day  which  breaks  up  his  retreat 

With  glare  of  sun,  and  noise  of  gong, 

Leaves  the  soul  haunted, 

Preoccupied,  distracted,  still  enchanted, 

By  wraiths  of  dim  dismembered  song. 

in. 

1  said  to  my  Muse  :  Oh,  sing  ! 

Fill  the  great  lungs  of  the  organ  full, 
And  to  it  lend  thy  deepest  soul ; 
To  God  I  owe  an  offering. 
My  Muse  is  an  artless,  simple  spirit ; 
Nothing  she  said 


94  THE   CHRISTIAN  MUSE. 

To  make  a  show  of  modest  merit, 

But  instantly  obeyed. 

At  first  she  roved  among  the  keys, 

As  if  to  find  some  fallen  thread, 

Some  plume  of  memory  mislaid  ; 

But,  failing  these, 

She  raised  her  earnest  eyes  to  Heaven 

Where  sacred  harmony  is  begot, 

Twin  inspiration  to  high  thought, 

And  both  were  given. 

All  solemn  then,  and  tremulous,  like  a  passion 

That  gathers  force  from  strong  compression, 

A  thousand  interweaving  notes 

Out-issuing  from  as  many  throats, 

The  organ  gave  forth  its  artillery. 

It  flooded  the  vaulting,  mid-air,  and  floor, 

And  rocked  the  knees  of  the  gallery. 

Was  it  the  sea  came  in  to  adore 

With  its  wealth  of  waves  ? 

Was  it  he  brought  in  from  coral  caves 

Such  treasures  of  worship  to  the  shore  ? 

And,  riding  that  flood  with  silvery  words, 

What  voice  lent  thought  to  the  throbbing  chords  ? 

Dear  Lyra,  the  voice  was  thine  ; 

But  thought,  breath,  utterance,  were  all  divine. 

Oh  !  forever  will  I  treasure 

The  pleasure  beyond  map  or  measure 

Which  that  hour  of  joy  in  trance  made  mine. 

Then  the  Altar  lighted  with  sudden  show, 
And  the  Holy  Volume  seemed  aglow  ; 
Flames  that  climbed  up  the  chancel  piers 
Fell  dropping  like  wax  from  the  frieze, 
As  hearts  uplifted  high  in  praise 
end  in  tears. 


MUSA   EX  TA  TIC  A.  95 

I  saw  electric  sparks  of  light 

Leap  from  the  Prophet's  hair, 

Weaving  swift  circles  in  the  air. 

The  Sanctuary  was  all  bright. 

I  saw  the  Crucifix  bleeding  ; — 

Ah  !  sweet  it  was,  but  solemn  and  dread, 

To  see  the  eyes  turn  in  the  Holy  Head 

So  woful  and  so  pleading. 

I  felt,  as  never  before, 

That  to  pray  is  less  than  to  adore  ; 

That  one  vast  mighty  mystery 

Comprises  human  history  ; 

That  these  are  one, — Victim,  High-Priest, 

And  Lamb  of  a  perpetual  feast ; 

That  altars  are  God's  theatres,  where 

In  sacred  scenery  is  shown 

Love  lifting  red  hands  to  the  Overthrone  ; 

That  sacrifice  is  bleeding  prayer, 

And  goeth  ever  on. 

Then  I  vowed  a  vow,  as  in  that  mood 
I  pressed  to  my  breast  the  holy  Rood, 
And  bent  my  head  to  the  floor  ; 
My  Muse  shall  sing  the  praise  of  God, 
Or  sing  no  more. 


MUSA  EXTATICA. 

The  altar  tiles  are  under  her  feet, 

Buff  and  blue  ; 

The  tiles  lie  smooth  beneath  her  feet, 

But  touch  not  her  sandal  shoe. 

Her  eyes  entranced  might  seem  to  gaze 

Where  arches  concentrate  and  meet 

In  a  maze  ; 

But  the  arches  are  not  in  view. 


g6  MUSA    EX  TA  TIC  A. 

Where  does  the  vision  lie  ? 

What  fixes  the  maiden's  eye  ? 

What  makes  her  smile  ? 

Is  it  far,  or  is  it  near  ? 

What  makes  her  garments  float  so  clear 

Above  the  bed  of  tile  ? 

They  are  not  lifted  by  the  air. 

Why  hold  her  hands  behind  her  head, 

Dipped  in  that  foam  of  golden  hair, 

As  if  she  heard  some  distant  tread, 

And  stood  prepared  to  call  ? 

Why  does  her  bosom  rise  and  fall  ? 

Its  even  swell  of  deep  emotion 

Is  like  the  roll  on  a  placid  ocean 

Of  billows  from  afar. 

Who  can  tell  what  these  billows  are  ? 

Is  it  joy  coming,  or  desire  outgoing? 

Does  she  command,  or  is  she  wooing  ? 

Why  does  she  smile  ?  why  bend  her  brow  ? 

Why  nod  ?  why  beckon  now, 

Whiles  censuring,  and  whiles  approving  ? 

Is  she  conveying  her  desire 

To  some  viewless  choir, 

Or  a  crowd  of  spirits  moving  ? 

Wait  !  wait  !     Now  she  is  still. 

If  thou  hast  a  poet's  ear 

For  sacred  song,  come  near  ! 

The  beating  of  her  heart  will  tell 

"  Lo  !  me  on  holy  ground, 

With  burning  bushes  all  around. 

Oh  !  whither  shall  I  turn  ? 

I  burn  !  I  burn  ! 

Electric  currents  come  and  go. 

They  thread  my  spirit  through  and  through 

And  a  crowding  tide  of  thought 


MUSA    EXT  A  TIC  A.  97 

Holds  my  spirit  overwrought, 

And  urges  love  to  fond  despair. 

Oh  !  give  me  air  ! 

I  die  !  I  die  ! 

Blow  on  me  from  the  upper  sky, 

Or  joy  that  has  no  breath, 

Unsung  must  end  in  death. 

Oh  !  give  me  air  divine  ! 

Brace  me  with  the  breath  of  wine  ! 

Give  me  such  milk  as  flows  from  the  breast 

Of  the  all-hallowing  Eucharist, 

That  I  may  troll 

Sweet  carols  to  the  Oversoul. 

Either  fill  me 

With  blood  of  song,  or  kill  me. 

"  Oh  !  I  am  drunk,  but  not  with  drink  ; 

Wild,  but  not  all  beyond  command. 

How  could  imagination  think 

To  gauge,  by  law  of  plumb  and  line, 

A  vision  reared  by  heavenly  wand, 

A  beauty  all  entrancing  and  divine, 

Which  makes  thought  reel  as  if  with  wine  ? 

It  steals  my  reason,  yet  I  own  it ; 

It  steals  my  thought  to  crown  it. 

My  heart  in  sweet  delirium 

Lies  safe  at  home. 

It  gives  me  more  than  it  can  take, 

Though  I  leave  all  for  its  dear  sake  ; 

A  mighty  vision  haunts  me, 

Enchants  and  disenchants  me, 

Heals  my  wounds,  yet  makes  me  bleed. 

Not  for  the  world  would  I  dispel  it. 

Oh  !  could  I,  as  I  see  it,  tell  it, 

I  were  a  bard  indeed. 


98  MUSA   EXTATICA. 

"  Oh  !  I  am  mad,  but  not  with  folly, 

Sad  am  I  without  melancholy, 

Glad,  but  with  sober  merriment  ; 

Fond  am  I,  without  detriment 

To  reason.     Bonded  to  higher  will 

That  may  not  be  denied, 

My  own  I  seek  to  kill, 

All  fearless  of  the  suicide. 

Oh  !  I  am  calm, 

I  know  where  I  am. 

Yea,  when  most  overwrought 

I  still  am  mistress  of  my  thought ; 

Though  oft  to  others  I  may  seem 

A  vessel  driving  to  the  coast 

On  the  foam  of  a  dream, 

And  utterly  lost, 

There  's  method  in  my  madness, 

There  's  measure  in  my  gladness  ; 

And  into  rhythmic  rule  I  bring 

True  anthems  to  my  Lord  and  King. 

Of  love,  all  ruling  love,  I  sing. 

By  love  inspired,  by  love  oppressed, 

Within  my  breast 

Electric  forces  gathering 

Leap  into  buds  ; 

Thoughts  crystallize  into  thick  geodes 

The  grasses  wave  their  myriad  flags  ; 

Hills  helmeted  with  lofty  crags 

Rein  up  like  warriors  ; 

The  hemlocks  bending  low, 

Like  water  carriers, 

Beneath  their  yokes  of  snow, 

Keep  measure  with  their  feet 

To  the  time  I  beat  ; 

Pines,  crowding  to  look  o'er 

The  common  score, 


MUSA   EXT  A  TIC  A.  99 

Bend  eagerly  down  till  their  bonnets  meet  ; 

Clouds  march  in  groups  ; 

Waves  march  in  columns  over  the  sea  ; 

Stars  gallop  in  troops  ; 

Nights  and  days  keep  time  ; 

The  fuguing  seasons  chime 

With  nature  and  with  me  ; — 

All  praise  the  Lord  together. 

To  the  last  cliffs  of  space  I  shout, 

My  choristers  to  gather. 

Sing  out  !  sing  out  ! 

Keep  tune,  keep  time, 

To  the  pitch  and  motion  of  my  rhyme  ! 

Faster  !  faster  !  faster  ! 

Look  at  me  ! 

One  !  two  !  three  ! 

'T  is  the  measure  of  the  mighty  Master. 

So  beats  revolving  life  in  Trinity. 

'T  is  the  secret  of  infinity — 

Who  keeps  true  time  shall  time  outlast ; 

Who  loses,  stubbornly  slow, 

From  heaven  shall  be  outcast, 

And  its  music  shall  never  know. 

Sing  all  !  sing  out  ! 

Prolong  the  chant  with  joyous  shout. 

Faith  praises  with  untiring  tongue. 

The  hearts  that  weary  die  unblest, 

Harps  must  not  be  unstrung, 

Love  may  repose  but  never  rest." 


100  THE  RATIONAL. 


THE   RATIONAL 

(Exoo.  xxviii,  15.) 

I. 

I  see  the  Ark.     I  see  where  meet, 
And  cross,  the  wings  of  cherubim 
O'ershadowing  the  Mercy-Seat. 
I  see  at  the  altar  the  form  of  him 
That  blesseth  and  is  blest. 
I  see  in  ephod,  mitre,  robe,  and  vest, 
And  golden  broidery  and  braid, 
Aaron  the  Priest, 

Great  Prophet  and  High  Pontiff,  all  arrayed 
As  on  that  solemn  feast 
When  the  Paschal  Lamb  is  slain. 
And,  hung  by  many  a  loop  and  chain, 
I  see  upon  his  breast 
The  RATIONAL,  or  judgment  plate. 
It  is  a  holy  spell. 

It  bears  the  names  and  gathering  fate 
Of  the  tribes  of  Israel. 
It  is  God's  oracle,  whence  emanate, 
As  from  celestial  womb, 
Doctrine  and  doom. 

0  Man  of  God  !  I  fear  thee. 
Although  thy  feet 

Approach  so  near  the  Mercy-Seat, 

1  tremble  to  be  near  thee. 
The  fear  I  feel 

Is  not  for  what  thou  hast,  or  art, 
But  what  thy  breastplate  doth  conceal. 
Thou  bearest  upon  thy  heart 
God's  wisdom,  and  God's  will  ; 


THE  RATIONAL.  IQI 

That  which  I  love,  that  which  I  dread, — 

Doctrine,  and  doom  ; 

A  light,  a  gloom  ; 

Light  to  the  living,  gloom  to  the  dead. 

Holy  doctrine  is  sweet  to  know  ; 

But  truth  can  bless,  and  truth  can  bind  ; 

The  light  that  fills  the  eye  can  blind  ; 

And  thus  God's  holy  will  also 

Brings  joy,  or  woe. 

Much  is  required  where  much  is  given  ; 

And  therefore,  O  Tribes  of  Israel, 

We  that  have  largest  hopes  in  heaven 

Have  most  to  fear  in  hell. 


n. 

Twelve  jewels  radiate 

On  the  High-Priest's  judgment  plate  ; 

Twelve  jewels,  with  each  a  name  ; 

And  among  the  rest 

I  see  the  purple  amethyst. 

It  sparkles  like  a  flame  ; 

It  has  the  color  of  wine  ; 

It  glitters  like  a  star  ; 

Its  number  is  nine  ; 

It  bears  the  name  of  Issachar, 

And  the  name  is  mine. 

Each  jewel  is  a  mystery. 

Four  rows  of  gems,  each  row  with  three. 

The  amethyst  is  ninth  in  order  ; 

It  means  :  THE  THOUGHT  OF  ETERNITY. 

And  the  weird  of  Issachar  is  "Jfe 

That  coucheth  upon  the  border" 

Such  is  my  weird.     So  my  life  lies. 
Upon  a  borderline  I  couch  ; 


IO2  THE  RATIONAL. 

Dreading  the  forward  step,  I  crouch 

Between  two  vast  eternities. 

On  either  hand  they  stretch  away 

Into  the  night,  into  the  day. 

Shall  the  endless  daylight  cover  me  ? 

Shall  the  eternal  night  close  over  me  ? 

I  cannot  say. 

But  time  will  speedily  show  ; 

The  doubt  will  clear  away, 

And  I  shall  know. 

O  consecrated  Priest  ! 

There  is  truth  in  that  jewelled  breast. 

Light  glows  on  that  Amethyst. 

The  name  it  bears  is  a  revelation 

Shall  guide  my  soul  to  her  salvation. 

Oh  !  hither  turn  that  flaming  core  ! 

And,  blazed  upon  my  brain, 

Dread  memory  of  eternity  remain 

Forevermore  ! 


MARANATHA. 

("  If  any  man  love  not  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  let  him  be 
Anathema  Maran-atha  !  " — I.  COR.  xvi.,  22.) 


A  curse  cannot  be  given  in  wrath, 
With  venomed  tongue  and  vengeful  eye. 
The  wordy  passion  passes  by 
Harmless,  mere  vapor  of  hot  breath. 

A  curse  is  the  scald  of  an  injured  tear  ; 
A  coal  of  pity  dropped  from  above  ; 
The  farewell  spoken  by  wearied  love 
In  the  hardened  prodigal's  ear. 


MARANA  THA.  1 03 

A  curse  is  a  fever  that  springs  from  a  cold  ; 
A  flame  that  dies  out  into  frost  ; 
The  change  of  bright  love  into  rust ; 
Warm  life  into  withering  mold. 

The  life  of  God  is  our  central  fire  ; 
Grand  Heart,  whose  nature  is  to  warm. 
We  draw  great  blessing,  or  great  harm, 
As  we  approach  Him,  or  retire. 


ii. 

'T  is  not  the  ban-crier  makes  the  ban. 
The  root  of  a  curse  is  cankering  sin. 
The  undying  worm  is  born  within, 
And  gnaws  where  its  life  began. 

No  lightning  is  forged  at  the  Overthrone  ; 
The  furnace  lies  on  a  lower  level, 
The  fire  recoils  on  the  doer  of  evil, 
And  the  blast  by  himself  is  blown. 

A  curse  is  no  thing  of  real  birth, 
But  a  blessing  lost  that  might  have  been. 
The  cold  abortion  lies  suckled  by  Sin  ; 
Hope's  ghost  glares  wild  at  a  vacant  hearth. 

Therefore  Anathema  to  thee, 
O  thou  that  lovest  not  the  Christ  ! 
Gauged  by  the  deep  grace  sacrificed, 
Deep  shall  thy  Maranatha  be. 


104  SCENES  AT  THE  HOLY  HOME. 


SCENES  AT  THE  HOLY  HOME. 

SCENE    I. 

(How  St.  Joseph  aroused  the  Holy  Family  at  dawn  ;  and 
how  he  dismissed  it  at  night.) 

Wake  !  Mary,  wake  !  Drive  sleep  away  ! 
The  dawn  is  near,  and  only  waits 
For  the  opening  of  the  eastern  gates 
To  flood  our  valley  with  the  day. 

Wake  !  wake  !  for  Jesus'  sake  ! 

Wake  !  Mary,  wake  !  Smiling  in  beauty, 
The  Holy  Babe  would  have  us  show 
How  sweet  is  duty  where  love  is  true  ; 
And  that  all  true  love  is  duty. 

Wake  !  wake  !  for  Jesus'  sake  ! 


Good-night,  dear  Mary  !    'T  is  time  to  rest. 
Now  lay  thy  busy  work  away. 
Behold  the  eyelids  of  the  day 
Fast  closing  in  the  drowsy  west. 

And  to  Thee,  blest  Babe,  good-night  ! 

Good-night !    How  nigh  the  silver  moon 
And  all  the  budding  stars  appear  ! 
How  sweet  to  think  that  Heaven  comes  near 
At  night  to  smile  on  duty  done  ! 

Mother  and  Babe,  good-night  ! 

SCENE  II. 

(How  St.  Joseph  taught  the  Child  Jesus  to  walk  ;  and  what 
the  Child  taught  him.) 

Creeping  on  the  cottage  floor, 
On  the  margin  of  the  Nile, 


SCENES  AT  THE  HOLY  HOME.  105 

In  the  land  of  His  exile  ; 

Creeping  to  the  open  door, 

A  little  child  (twelve  months  or  more) 

Looked  out  Upon  the  street, 

Oh  !  it  was  passing  sweet 

To  see  that  face  so  infantine, 

So  mingling  human  with  divine  ; 

And  watch  those  little  legs  drag  on, 

Unable  to  walk,  unable  to  stand  ; 

And  see  Him  plant  that  little  hand 

For  a  forefoot  to  walk  upon. 

"  Now  come  to  me,"  the  Father  said, 

And  lifted  Him  to  His  feet  ; 

"  Thou  shalt  walk  to  me  upon  the  street. 

Stand  straight !    Be  not  afraid  ! 

And,  when  the  trip  has  been  fairly  made, 

See  here  what  a  cake  to  eat !  " 

How  strange,  from  Joseph  such  a  word 

To  his  Creator,  Saviour,  Lord  ! 

How  strange,  with  gifts  and  childish  talk, 

Bribing  weak  Deity  to  walk  ! 


Then  the  Child  unloosed  his  little  tongue, 

And  He  laughed  right  merrily, 

And  He  spoke  quite  cheerily  : 

"  I  '11  teach  thee,  dear  Father,  to  walk  along 

Less  awkwardly  and  wearily. 

I  have  tottered  only  to  thy  knee, 

With  gait  unstaid,  and  irresolute, 

Not  knowing  how  to  .put  down  My  foot  ; 

But  thou  shalt  walk  to  Me, 

With  a  footstep  strong  and  even, 

As  far  as  hence  to  the  highest  heaven. 

There,  Pharaoh's  Joseph,  thou  shalt  reign 

Viceroy  ;  and  a  vast  multitude, 


106  SCENES  AT  THE  HOLY  HOME. 

All  tottering  for  want  of  food, 

Shall  change  their  famine  for  thy  grain." 

SCENE   III. 

(How  the  Child  Jesus  learned  to  talk  ;  and  how  He  taught 
St.  Joseph  to  be  silent.) 

One  evening  the  Holy  Family 

Were  gathered  in  the  Egyptian  land, 

At  Cairo,  a  poor  and  fugitive  band, 

Yet  richly  blest  in  their  poverty  ; 

Jesus,  and  Mary,  and  Joseph — these  three. 

Then  Joseph  the  Boy  to  speech  beguiled. 

"  Say  MARY  !    say  MARY  !  dear  child." 
The  Infant's  voice  was  launched  in  the  air  ; 
And  the  name  was  spoken  so  soft  and  clear, 
Speech  never  sounded  in  mother's  ear 
So  musical  and  fair. 

"  Say  FATHER,  now,"  then  Joseph  prayed  ; 
And  "  Abba  !  Abba  !  Abba  !  "  He  said. 
The  title  sprang  from  that  velvety  tongue 
So  sweet,  and  full  of  cheer, 
The  choirs  of  Paradise  checked  their  song, 
And  leaned  on  their  harps  to  hear. 
The  voice  was  distant ;  yet  not  a  throat 
In  all  their  throng  could  sound  a  note 
To  make  the  distant  seem  so  near. 


Then  a  silence  dropped  on  the  Patriarch's  soul ; 

It  lasted  long, 

Like  the  silence  that  follows  a  sweet  song, 

Which  has  filled  the  spirit  full, 

And  every  sense  beguiled. 

The  Boy-God  looked  up  at  His  Mother  and  smiled, 


SCENES  AT  THE  HOLY  HOME.  1 07 

And  whispered  :  "  This  silence  will  not  end, 
'T  is  my  gift  to  a  beloved  friend." 

Now  the  life  of  Joseph  has  been  recorded, 

And  justice  full  to  his  love  awarded, 

Yet  not  one  word  from  his  mouth  is  penned. 

The  Sacred  Record  shows  thus  always, 

To  reader  or  hearer, 

That  silent  duty  is  counted  dearer 

Than  the  loud  tongue  of  praise. 

SCENE    IV. 

(How  St.  Joseph  taught  the  Holy  Child  to  pray,  and  learned 
from  Him  a  higher  prayer.) 

"  Come  hither,  Jesus,  to  my  knee  ; 

Fold  Thy  hands,  and  pray  with  me  : 

'  Our  Father  !  that  dost  in  Heaven  live, 

Praise  to  Thy  Name  be  given  ! 

May  all  on  earth  one  truth  believe, 

And  do  Thy  will  as  done  in  Heaven  ! 

May  we  our  daily  bread  receive, 

With  daily  grace  to  leaven  ! 

As  we  do  freely  all  forgive, 

So  be  our  sins  forgiven  ! 

Temptations  from  our  bosoms  drive  ; 

In  danger  be  our  haven  ! ' 

It  is  a  good  prayer,  my  Son. 

'T  is  good  for  the  evil ;  't  is  good  for  the  just  ; 

'T  is  good  for  all  the  children  of  dust  ; 

And  for  thee,  if  thou  be  one." 


Slowly  the  Child  repeated  the  prayer 
Until  He  had  it  all  by  heart, 
Gravely  reciting  the  sinner's  part 
As  if  His  own  need  were  there  : 


108  SCENES  AT  THE  HOLY  HOME. 

Then  to  the  wondering  Patriarch  said  : 

"  Beautiful  is  this  form  of  prayer, 

And  I  will  make  it  my  special  care 

To  have  it  by  all  nations  prayed. 

But  I  will  teach  thee  to  pray  without  form, 

And  so  thy  bosom  warm 

With  love  divine, 

And  hold  it  pressed  so  close  to  mine, 

That  prayer  shall  be  all  one  with  duty  ; 

And,  save  in  thy  appointed  task, 

Thine  eyes  shall  find  on  earth  no  beauty, 

Thy  heart  no  other  joy  shall  ask. 

Noiseless  work,  and  wordless  prayer, 

Silent  service  everywhere  ; 

And  not  a  word  shall  fall  from  thee 

To  fill  a  blank  in  history.  • 

SCENE  v. 

(How   Jesus   and   Joseph   wrought   together ;    and   how  a 
shadow  crept  into  their  shop.) 

Jesus  and  Joseph  at  work  !     Hurra  ! 

Sight  never  to  see  again, 

A  'prentice  Deity  plies  the  saw, 

While  the  Master  ploughs  with  the  plane. 

Merrily  rise  the  curling  chips, 

Quick  brushed  with  the  hand  away  ; 

From  iron  teeth  to  the  floor  fast  drips 

A  dusty  wooden  spray. 

Mysterious  Heaven  ! 

Is  this  the  Prince  of  promise  given 

To  take  our  sins  away  ? 

Work  !  work  !  work  ! 

Through  the  long  day  till  nearly  dark, 

Then  Joseph  said  to  the  Infant  :  "  Stop  ! 


SCENES  AT  THE  HOLY  HOME.  1 09 

Fast  fall  the  eyelids  of  the  west ; 

'T  is  time,  dear  Boy,  to  rest. 

I  bide  here  in  the  shop  ; 

There  is  more  work  I  trow." 

Said  Jesus  :  "  I  have  more  than  thou. 

Thy  work  will  soon  be  done  ; 

And  the  reward  is  near. 

The  work  of  my  life  is  scarce  begun  ; 

Yet  my  last  wood  to  work  upon 

Stands  always  between  me  and  the  sun, 

And  its  shadow  reaches  here." 


Two  lengths  of  timber, — that  is  all. 

One  lay  aslant  ;  one  stood  upright. 

They  intercepted  the  western  light 

On  its  way  to  the  wall. 

When  Jesus  stretched  His  arms  in  the  air, 

As  often  the  weary  do, 

A  shadowy  form  was  pictured  there, 

Like  the  forecasting  of  a  woe 

Before  a  fated  soul  held  up  ; 

And  the  dark  scene  of  deicide 

Seemed  there  by  spectre  typified, 

Or  pre-enacted  in  the  shop. 

"  Why  dost  thou  start,  dear  Father,  thus  ? 

Why  dost  thou  gaze  at  the  wall  ? 

'T  is  but  a  shadow  after  all." 

"  I  see  the  shadow  of  a  cross, 

Such  as  slaves  are  hung  upon. 

But — what  pierces  my  bosom  through  and  through — 

I  see  a  shadowy  victim  too. 

The  shape  is  thine  own,  my  Son. 

O  Jesus,  my  innocent  Boy  ! 

Is  this  the  employ 

That  waits  for  Thee  ? 


HO  THE   W INDIGO. 

Must  Thou  work  out  this  destiny  ? " 

"  Say  naught,  dear  Father,"  the  Boy  replied  ; 

"  The  eye  hath  seen  ;  the  tongue  must  hide, 

And  the  heart  forget  if  it  may. 

Behold  the  doom  that  shades  my  path  ! 

'T  is  the  shadow  of  God's  love  ;  't  is  wrath  ; 

'T  is  mine,  and  I  must  bide  my  day." 


THE  WINDIGO.* 

By  the  lodge  light  crouching  like  a  snail, 
Creeping  like  a  snake  along  the  trail, 
Hiding  in  the  bushes  like  an  owl, 
Meeting  every  gazer  with  a  scowl, 
Uttering  the  same  unearthly  howl. 

Agh-ghu,  agh-ghu  ; 

Eth-o-ne,  ogh,  agh-ghu  ! 

Withered  hag  !     Is  this  the  Maquas  maid 
Stood  once  straight  and  shapely  as  a  reed  ? 
Woe  to  the  lodge  of  Matsoree  !     What  thief 
Quenching  the  light  of  Teonontogen's  chief 
Has  changed  its  glory  to  an  idiot  grief  ? 

Agh-ghu,  agh-ghu  ; 

Eth-o-ne,  ogh,  agh-ghu  ! 

Came  to  the  lodge  a  warrior  of  great  fame  ; 
Wyandot  widows  howled  to  hear  his  name. 
When  he  sat  down  why  did  Yaweko  rise  ? 
The  scornful  maiden,  wilful  and  not  wise, 
Had  let  a  young  Oneida  look  into  her  eyes. 

Agh-ghu,  agh-ghu  ; 

Eth-o-ne,  ogh,  agh-ghu  ! 

*  Windigo  is  the  name  given  by  our  Northern  Indians  to  a 
fabulous  cannibal  ghost. 


THE  WINDIGO.  Ill 

The  moon  looked  down  from  an  angry  sky, 
Looked  down  with  a  blot  of  red  in  its  eye. 
A  brave  lay  couched  in  a  shroud  of  snow. 
One  hand  an  arrow  grasped  ;  no  bow. 
The  barb  lay  deep  in  his  breast  below. 

Agh-ghu,  agh-ghu  ; 

Eth-o-ne,  ogh,  agh-ghu  ! 

"  Fairly  I  struck  him,  his  face  to  me," 

Said  the  young  Oneida  to  Matsoree. 

"  Stags  fight  for  mates  !    'T  is  the  law  of  the  wood  ; 

But,  if  gifts  be  needed  to  stanch  this  blood, 

Lo  !  I  and  my  tribe  will  make  it  good." 

Agh-ghu,  agh-ghu  ; 

Eth-o-ne,  ogh,  agh-ghu  ! 

Hard  was  the  mother's  heart  as  stone  ; 
Cold  was  the  Sachem's  eye  as  the  cold  moon. 
Still  as  the  moon  braves  strode  in  wrathful  mood 
Through  air  all  sickened  with  the  scent  of  blood. 
Dogs  howled  their  wonder  to  the  wondering  wood. 

Agh-ghu,  agh-ghu'; 

Eth-o-ne,  ogh,  agh-ghu  ! 

"  Oh  !  fly,  my  love  ;  to-night  let  us  go  forth. 
Taronyawakon  blanketed  in  snow  calls  north. 
Rivers  and  lakes  are  secret  and  discreet ; 
Ice  takes  no  print  from  soft  and  wary  feet ; 
Leaves  whisper  low  when  cautious  lovers  meet." 

Agh-ghu,  agh-ghu  ; 

Eth-o-ne,  ogh,  agh-ghu  ! 

"  Yaweko,  no  ;  I  fear  to  tempt  the  night. 

I  see  ghosts  climb  in  crowds  the  northern  light. 

The  mountain  Oki  lash  the  winds  to  storm. 


112  THE  WINDIGO, 

I  saw  to-day,  with  malediction  warm, 
Under  the  ice  green  lizards  swarm." 

Agh-ghu,  agh-ghu  ; 

Eth-o-ne,  ogh,  agh-ghu  ! 

"  Haste,  O  my  brave  ;   these  words  are  wild. 
The  forests  know  and  love  a  forest  child. 
Nothing  fear  I  from  the  helpless  dead  ; 
But  I  fear  the  sound  of  a  vengeful  tread, 
And  a  silent  tongue  when  the  eye  is  red  ! " 

Agh-ghu,  agh-ghu  ; 

Eth-o-ne,  ogh,  agh-ghu  ! 

Who  cross  so  fleet  the  Kayadutta's  glen  ? 
Who  print  the  snow  with  crimson'd  moccasin  ? 
Through  waves  of  angry  clouds  the  moon  swims 

west ; 

Streamers  of  hairy  fire  stretch  from  her  crest  ; 
The  hollow  ground  groans  like  a  sinner's  breast. 

Agh-ghu,  agh-ghu  ; 

Eth-o-ne,  ogh,  agh-ghu  ! 

"  Ha  !  see,  my  love,  a  dead-house  all  forlorn  ! 
Here  find  we  rest  awhile,  here  wait  for  morn." 
"  Yaweko,  no  ;  no  living  thing  I  dread  ; 
But  I  fear  the  breath  of  the  unburied  dead, 
And  the  clammy  air  where  a  corpse  has  laid." 

Agh-ghu,  agh-ghu  ; 

Eth-o-ne,  ogh,  agh-ghu  ! 

"  Fear  naught,  my  brave  ;  trust  to  love's  Manito. 
The  power  to  hurt  dies  with  a  dying  foe. 
Here  borrow  we  from  death  shelter  and  rest. 
Lo  me  thy  guard  !     Be  thou  to-night  love's  guest ; 
Pillow  thy  fears  upon  Yaweko's  breast." 

Agh-ghu,  agh-ghu  ; 

Eth-o-ne,  ogh,  agh-ghu ! 


THE  WINDIGO.  113 

Upward  like  leaping  dogs  leaped  the  red  flame. 
Gleamed  a  wild  fire  on  guilty  love  and  shame  ; 
Died  like  spent  love  into  an  ashy  heap. 
Heugh  !  see  that  shape  into  the  cabin  creep  ! 
Aireskoe"  !   what  eyeballs  glare  upon  their  sleep  ! 

Agh-ghu,  agh-ghu  ; 

Eth-o-ne,  ogh,  agh-ghu  ! 

Wake  ?  wake  Yaweko  !     Sleep  not  thus  alone. 
List !  list,  Yaweko  !  Was  not  that  a  groan  ? 
Something  within  the  darkness  bodes  no  good  ; 
Something  as  if  strong  teeth  were  tearing  food  ; 
Something  as  if  a  tongue  were  lapping  blood. 

Agh-ghu,  agh-ghu  ; 

Eth-o-ne,  ogh,  agh-ghu  ! 

Quick  from  her  blanket  sprang  the  frightened  maid, 

Raked  the  dull  embers  into  coals  of  red. 

What  greets  her  burning  sight  ?    what  stains  the 

floor? 

Teeth  all  unseen  her  mate  to  remnants  tore. 
Yaweko,  he  will  look  into  thine  eyes  no  more  ! 

Agh-ghu,  agh-ghu  ! 

Eth-o-ne,  ogh,  agh-ghu  • 

Out  through  the  doorway  wild  the  maiden  sprang, 

Wildly  behind  a  ghostly  war-whoop  rang. 

What  holds  that  shadowy  hand  ?     What  stays  the 

blow  ? 

'T  is  the  totem  of  her  tribe,  her  mother's  Manito. 
Thou  'rt  saved,  Yaweko,  saved  for  a  long  woe. 

Agh-ghu,  agh-ghu  ; 

Eth-o-ne,  ogh,  agh-ghu  ! 

Therefore  in  fear  she  crouches  like  a  snail ; 
Therefore  she  creeps  snake-like  upon  the  trail  ; 


I  14  PAPOOSE  'S  FROLIC. 

Therefore  she  stares  at  nothing  like  an  owl  ; 
Therefore  she  sends  to  gazing  eyes  a  scowl  ; 
Therefore  that  hopeless  and  unceasing  howl. 

Agh-ghu,  agh-ghu  ; 

Eth-o-ne,  ogh,  agh-ghu  ! 


PAPOOSE'S  FROLIC. 

Wah-wah  !     Wah-wah  !     He  wakes  ! 
Open  two  round  little  lakes. 
How  soft  !     How  bright  !     How  deep  ! 
Sleep,  my  papoose,  ah,  sleep  ! 

Wah-wah  !     Wah-wah  ! 

Is  this  my  own  papoose, 
Or  is  it  a  little  mouse  ? 
So  sly  he  comes  ;  creep,  creep  ; 
Shugh  !     Little  mouse,  go  sleep  ! 
Wah-wah  !     Wah-wah  ! 

I  see  a  head  !     A  bear  ! 
I  hear  a  growl  !     'T  would  scare 
The  soul  of  the  mighty  Kryn. 
Sleep,  bear  !     Go  sleep  again  ! 
Wah-wah  !     Wah-wah  ! 

What  moons  so  full  and  wide 
Peep  over  the  cradle  side  ? 
They  light  up  all  the  lodge. 
Will  ye  not  sleep  ?     Dodge  !     Dodge  ! 
Wah-wah  !     Wah-wah  ! 

Sleep  now.     Asontha  comes. 
I  feel  his  shadowing  plumes. 


ADORO  TE  DEVOTE. 

The  night-king  stoops,  my  boy,  to  cast 
Soft  furs  upon  thy  breast. 

Wah-wah  !     Wah-wah  ! 


ADORO  TE  DEVOTE. 

A  FREE  TRANSLATION. 

Adoring  I  draw  near,  O  august  Deity, 

That  hidest  Thy  true  presence  in  this  mystery. 

My  breathless   spirit   fails   me    when    I    think   of 

Thee, 
And  leaves  my  heart  alone  to  worship  Thee. 

My  sight,  my  touch,  my  taste  are  all  deceived  in 

Thee; 

Trusting  to  sound  alone  I  have  believed  in  Thee. 
The  word  of  Christ  makes  my  unfaltering  faith 

secure. 
No  guaranty  of  earth  or  heaven  can  be  more  sure. 

Upon  the  cross  was  hidden  Thy  divinity, 
But  here  Thou  hidest  also  Thy  humanity. 
Freely  confessing  both,  I  seek  with  penitence 
What  sought  the  dying  thief,  and  in  like  confidence. 

"  My  Lord  !  my  God  !  "  the  slow-believing  Thomas 

cried. 

I  cannot  see,  as  Thomas  did,  Thy  wounded  side  ; 
Yet  the  same  joyous  greeting  here  I  bring  to  Thee, 
And  with  like  faith  and  hope  and  love  I  cling  to 

Thee. 

O  dear  memorial  of  a  Saviour's  charity  ! 
O  living  bread  that  giveth  life  eternally  ! 


Il6  DIES 


Give  to  my  soul  that  hungering  appetite 
Which  finds  in  Thee  alone  true  life   and   sweet 
delight. 

Fond  Pelican  !  while  at  Thy  bosom  feeding, 

0  wash  my  spirit  clean  by  its  dear  bleeding  ! 

1  know,  one  drop  alone  is  competent  to  pay 
The  ransom  of  a  world,  and  wash  its  sin  away. 

O  Jesus  !  Thou  art  here,  but  veiled  and  hidden. 
Faith  sees  what  is  to  longing  eyes  forbidden. 
Haste,  Lord,  and  bring  that  day  of  grace  to  me, 
Which  in  full  glory  shall  reveal  Thy  face  to  me  ! 


DIES 


Oh,  that  day  !     That  day  of  terror  ! 
Prophet's  word  and  Sibyl's  finger 
Point  to  one  dread  day  of  anger 

When  the  skies  shall  warp  and  wither  ; 
Oceans  shrink  and  dry  together  ; 
Solid  earth  relapse  to  cinder. 

Day  of  Nature's  dissolution  ! 
Day  of  final  retribution  !  — 
Some  to  joy,  and  some  to  sorrow. 

Hark  !  the  trumpet,  —  blast  terrific  ! 
Now  the  dead,  in  mingled  panic, 
Gather  to  the  dread  assizes. 

Death  shall  stand  aghast,  and  Nature, 
When  from  dust  the  summon'd  creature 
Rises  trembling  to  make  answer. 


DIES  IRsE.  II/ 

Ah  !  the  wonder  !     Oh  !  the  wailing  ! 
When  the  heavens  above  unveiling 
Show  the  Judge  of  all  descending  ! 

Now  begins  the  awful  session. 
Sinner,  make  thy  full  confession. 
Naught  avails  the  least  evasion. 

Lo  !  the  Book  of  Doom  !     Each  action, 
Secret  sin,  or  bold  transgression, 
Idle  word,  foul  thought,  is  noted. 

Strictest  justice  is  accorded  ; 
Grace  to  gracious  deed  afforded, 
Death  to  deadly  sin  awarded. 

• 

Where  the  Saints  must  fear  and  tremble, 
Could  I  stand  the  test,  thus  sinful  ? 
Could  I  find  a  plea  for  pardon  ? 

Could  an  advocate  avail  me  ? 
Pleas  and  advocates  all  fail  me. 
Jesus,  Thou  alone  canst  save  me. 

Mighty  Monarch  !  Oh,  remember 
That  blest  day  of  blest  December  ! 
'T  was  for  me  the  Virgin  bore  Thee. 

Seeking  me,  beside  the  fountain 

Thou  didst  rest  Thee  ;  to  the  mountain, 

For  my  sake,  Thou  didst  betake  Thee. 

On  that  dear  Cross,  to  redeem  me, 
Thou  didst  hang.     Lord  !  is  it  seemly, 
So  much  costing,  I  should  perish  ? 


Il8  MID-LENT. 

Thou  didst  smile  on  Mary's  unction, 
Thoughtful  love,  and  deep  compunction 
On  the  dying  thief's  confession. 

Like  them  guilty,  like  them  grieving, 
Like  them  loving  and  believing, 
Lord  !  I  claim  a  like  compassion. 

To  Thy  mercy  I  confide  me  ; 
From  Thy  justice,  Saviour,  hide  me 
Ere  that  day  of  dread  accounting. 

Oh  !  that  scene  of  strange  uprising  ! 

Oh  !  that  solemn  criticising  ! 

Oh  !  that  judgment  past  revising  ! 


Peace'to  thee,  departed  brother, 
Tenant  once  of  this  cold  clay  ! 
Jesus  !  give  him  rest  alway. 

Amen. 


MID-LENT. 
[A  revived  legend.] 

Lone  was  the  desert  where  Christ  fasted  ; 

Dark  and  dreary  was  the  shade 

Wherein  He  hid  and  prayed. 

Forty  days  and  nights  it  lasted  ; 

Yet  scarce  the  half  was  made 

When,  deeper  straying  in  the  gloom, 

He  came  to  a  place  so  wild  and  bare, 

It  seemed  no  being  could  make  it  a  home, 

Save  that  Man  of  Prayer, 

Or  some  lion  seeking  a  lair. 

Here,  pacing  slowly  back  and  forth, 


MID-LENT.  1 19 

With  His  eyes  to  the  earth, 

And  His  heart  on  high, 

In  His  path  so  hard  and  dry 

A  rose  he  found, 

A  large  and  lovely  rose, 

Such  as  never  grows 

Save  in  the  kindliest  ground. 

"  Thanks  !  Father,"  He  said,  "  I  comprehend. 

This  lesson  is  all  divine  ; 

And  it  shall  go  from  me  to  mine, 

And  be  treasured  to  the  end. 

I  would  not  have  my  followers  fast 

Like  the  proud  Pharisee, 

With  faces  long  and  overcast, 

Apes  of  a  sour  sanctity. 

But  I  would  have  their  desert  bear 

Such  fruits  of  fasting  and  of  prayer 

That,  while  the  body  hides  its  pain, 

The  soul's  deep  joy  may  be  seen." 

Then  plucking  the  rose,  with  a  heavenly  smile, 

The  stem  to  His  bosom  He  pressed. 

The  secret  thorns  sank  into  His  breast, 

But  the  flower  bloomed  gay  the  while. 

One  Sunday  always  in  Mid-Lent 

The  altar,  which  before  was  bare, 

Is  decked  with  flowers,  and  made  to  wear 

A  look  of  bright  content. 

By  this  we  mean  to  call  again 

The  lesson  that  our  Lord  has  given, — 

That  penance,  to  be  prized  in  heaven, 

Must  learn  to  smile  on  pain. 

Nor  is  there  need  to  feign  ; 

For  God  will  send  to  such  penitent 

Sweet  flowers  to  blossom  on  his  Lent, 

Which  elsewhere  will  be  sought  in  vain. 


120      THE   GATHERING  OF   THE   GUILD. 


THE  GATHERING  OF  THE  GUILD.1 

Hark  the  tread  of  the  Guild  resoundeth  ! 

Steadily,  oh  !    Steadily,  oh  ! 
Lightly  every  bosom  boundeth  ; 

Merrily,  oh  !     Merrily,  oh  ! 
Promptly  at  the  call, 

Spite  of  wind  and  weather, 
Friends  and  brothers  all, 
Gayly  we  gather. 

CHORUS. 

Round  the  banner,  Guildsmen,  rally  ! 

Merrily,  oh  !     Merrily,  oh  ! 
Merrily,  merrily,  merrily,  oh  ! 

Merrily,  oh  !     Merrily,  oh  ! 

Wearily  home  the  drunkard  turneth  ; 
Wearily,  oh  !     Wearily,  oh  ! 
Drearily  there  the  fire  burneth  ; 

Drearily,  oh  !     Drearily,  oh  ! 
Oh  !  the  heavy  head  ! 

Oh  !  the  eyes  burning  ! 
Children  lacking  bread  ! 
Wife  sadly  mourning  ! 

CHORUS. 

Round  the  banner,  Guildsmen,  rally  ! 

Dearly,  oh  !     Dearly,  oh  ! 
Dearly,  dearly,  dearly,  oh  ! 

Dearly,  oh  !     Dearly,  oh  ! 

1  This  song  and  the  following  were  adopted  by  St.  Mary's 
Temperance  Guild,  to  sing  at  the  opening  and  closing  of  their 
meetings. 


PARTING  OF  THE   GUILD.  121 

Loud  be  the  song  of  the  Guild  as  we  gather  ! 

Cheerily,  oh  !     Cheerily,  oh  ! 
Long  may  we  crowd  about  our  banner  ! 

Merrily,  oh  !     Merrily,  oh  ! 
Praise  to  God  on  high  ! 

Love  to  our  neighbor  ! 
Angels  guard  our  homes  ! 
Heaven  bless  our  labor  ! 

CHORUS. 
Round  the  banner,  Guildsmen,  rally  ! 

Merrily,  oh  !     Merrily,  oh  ! 
Merrily,  merrily,  merrily,  oh  ! 

Merrily,  oh  !     Merrily,  oh  ! 


PARTING  OF  THE  GUILD. 

i. 
Brothers,  now  before  we  part, 

Let  our  voices  chime, 
And  the  beat  of  each  true  heart 

Measure  true  our  time. 
Meeting  is  a  joy  to  all  ; 

Parting  is  a  pain. 
Who  can  tell  what  may  befall 

Ere  we  meet  again  ? 

ii. 
Ever  binding,  ever  blest 

Be  our  common  vow  ! 
Joy  to  every  loving  breast 

Gathered  with  us  now  ! 
Health  to  absent  friends  as  well ; 

Gladness  in  their  homes  ! 
Peace  to  dear  and  dead,  who  dwell 

Where  no  sorrow  comes  \ 


122  A    GRADUAL  PSALM, 

III. 

Holy  Father,  Holy  Son, 

Holy  Spirit,  hail  ! 
Threefold  power  whose  single  throne 

Lies  beyond  the  veil  ! 
As  upon  our  knees  we  fall, 

Bending  meek  and  low, 
Kindly  look  upon  us  all  ! 

Bless  us  ere  we  go  ! 


A  GRADUAL   PSALM. 

Glad  was  I  when  they  said  to  me  : 
"  Come  to  the  house  of  God  !  " 
O  dearly  do  I  love  the  road  ; 
With  joy  I  count  each  glad  degree 
By  which  I  mount  to  Thy  abode, 
O  Lord,  my  God, 
To  Thy  abode,  and  Thee  ! 

My  feet  shall  stand  within  thy  streets, 

Jerusalem  ! 

And  when,  with  harp  and  solemn  hymn, 

They  mount  unto  thy  temple  gates, 

My  feet  shall  march  with  them. 

Thither  the  tribes  go  up,  and  throng 

The  sacred  court. 

Thither  the  vested  priests  resort, 

The  Levites  raise  inspired  song  ; 

And  sentry  hills  on  guard  around, 

O  Sion  !  catch  the  sound  ; 

And,  from  their  hollow  grots, 

Deep  loving  throats, 

Send  back  the  notes 

To  die  away  on  holy  ground. 


THE  DAILY  HOURS.  123 

Hail  !  holy  altar,  judgment-seat, 

High  throne  of  mercy  and  of  law  5 

Knowing  that  God  is  great, 

I  bow  to  thee  with  awe. 

Yet  all  the  while  I  feel, 

As  reverently  I  kneel 

To  kiss  thy  feet, 

That  the  whole  air 

I  breathe  when  there 

Is  sweet,  surpassing  sweet. 

Sweetest  to  me  Thy  temple,  Lord, 

When  all  is  still  ; 

When  not  a  sound  is  heard, 

No  tinkling  altar-bell, 

No  song,  no  spoken  word  ; 

When  the  stillness  is  unstirred 

By  any  step, 

Or  the  motion  of  a  lip  ; 

Then,  all  alone,  in  quiet  partnership, 

My  heart  and  I  commune  ; 

And  both,  in  tune 

With  the  deep  silence  there, 

Sing  words  that  are  not  spoken, 

In  tones  that  leave  no  token 

In  the  air  ; 

Yet  every  word  is  a  silence  broken, 

And  every  note  a  prayer. 


THE  DAILY  HOURS. 

MATUTINA  ligat  Christum  qui  crimina  solvit. 
PRIMA  replet  sputis.     Causam  dat  TERTIA  mortis. 
SEXTA  Cruci  nectit.     Latus  ejus  NONA  bipertit. 
VESPERA  deponit.     Tumulo  Completa  repon  it. 


124  THE  PRIESTLY  ROBE. 

The  hour  of  MATINS  finds  our  Lord  in  chains. 
At  PRIME  they  spit  upon  His  face.     At  TIERCE 
We  hear  His  doom  of  death.     Sad  SEXT  complains 
Before  the  Cross.     At  NONE  His  side  they  pierce. 
At  VESPERS  they  take  down  His  dear  remains  ; 
While  COMPLINE  watches  by  His  tomb  in  tears. 
Watch  thou,  my  heart,  until  thy  Lord  appears. 

[In  the  foregoing  lines  only  the  English  translation  is  new. 
LAUDS  have  here  no  special  mention.  They  are  said  or  sung, 
even  in  the  Communities  of  Religious,  at  the  same  hour  as 
the  Matins,  and  practically  included  in  that  office.] 


THE  PRIESTLY  ROBE. 


Touch  it  lightly,  or  not  at  all. 

Let  it  not  fall ! 

Let  not  a  fabric  so  august 

Trail  in  the  dust  ! 

'T  is  a  costly  thing, 

Woven  by  love  in  suffering. 

'T  was  Jesus'  parting  gift  to  men. 

When  the  Lord  rose  to  heaven  again, 

His  latest  breathing  fell  on  it, 

And  left  a  sacred  spell  on  it. 

A  mystery  hides  within  its  folds. 

Quickened  by  sacramental  breath, 

It  holds 

The  power  of  life  and  death. 

Would  you  sully  it  ?   Would  you  rend  it  ? 

Is  there  a  Christian  would  not  defend  it — 

A  robe  so  costly,  and  so  rare, 

So  wonderfully  fair  ? 

Woe  to  the  hand  profane,. 


THE  PRIESTL  Y  ROBE.  1 25 

Woe  to  the  heart  ungracious, 
Woe  to  the  tongue  unheeding, 
Would  dare  to  cast  a  stain 
On  a  vestment  made  so  precious 
By  such  costly  bleeding  ! 

ii. 

I  know  this  robe  and  its  history, 

And  what  strange  virtue  goeth  forth 

From  its  hem  to  bless  the  earth  ; 

And  I  adore  the  mystery 

That  gives  it  grace, 

In  Jesus'  name,  to  soothe  and  heal. 

With  more  than  human  tenderness 

I  prize  the  priestly  order  ; 

And,  while  with  reverent  knee  I  kneel, 

I  do  not  see  beneath  the  border 

Frail  feet  of  clay, 

But  seek  to  find,  if  so  I  may, 

By  feeling, 

Some  gracious  thread  which  will  convey 

To  my  sore  spirit  healing. 

Vicars  of  Christ  !     Deem  me  not  rude, 

If  nearer  than  is  wont  I  press  me  ; 

But  turn,  and  bless  me 

Amid  the  kneeling  multitude. 


MEDITATIONS    IN    VERSE. 


127 


MEDITATIONS    IN    VERSE. 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  LIFE. 


O  Scientists  and  Sages  !     Ye  have  read 

Unnumbered  volumes  through, 

And  knowledge  hides  his  head 

With  you. 

Deep-pondering,  and  far-seeing, 

Ye  know  the  mystery  of  this  being, 

Its  origin  and  end. 

Tell'me,  then,  what  I  am  ; 

Tell  me  from  whence  I  came  ; 

Tell  me  whereto  I  tend  ; 

Yea,  why  I  am  at  all. 

In  vain  I  call. 

From  Scientist,  or  Seer, 

No  answer  cometh  to  my  ear. 

Why  ask  of  them  that  cannot  give  ? 

Why  call  for  light 

To  them  that  grope  in  deeper  night  ? 

In  God  I  live, 

Draw  breath,  have  sense  and  motion. 
From  God  I  came  ;  to  God  must  I  return, 
129 


130  THE  PROBLEM  OF  LIFE. 

As  the  rain,  ocean-born, 

Returneth  to  the  bosom  of  the  ocean. 

I  am  all  His,  and  His  alone. 

No  other  maker  names  me  ; 

No  other  master  claims  me  ; 

Nay,  I  am  not  my  own. 

Lord  of  my  life  and  destiny, 

I  do  confess,  my  God,  in  Thee 

Full  sovereignty  and  absolute  domain. 

ii. 

Why  was  I  made  ?     God  had  no  need  of  me. 

I  was  not  necessary,  had  no  claim  to  be. 

Without  consulting  me,  or  mine, 

But  of  His  royal  pleasure, 

And  as  the  by-plan  of  a  vast  design, 

Including  me  and  my  scant  measure, 

From  a  deep  mould 

As  infinitely  old 

As  His  own  mighty  mind  He  brought  me, 

And  into  being  wrought  me. 

A  delicate  complexity 

Of  spirit  and  machinery, 

Of  matter,  force,  and  faculty, 

A  frail  and  feeble  creature, 

But  with  a  destiny  above  my  nature, 

He  designed  me, 

And  assigned  me 

To  a  station,  service,  and  vocation 

In  the  great  feodary  of  His  creation. 

There,  to  my  post  and  duty  tied, 
Let  me  abide, 
Calm  and  content ; 
Indifferent 


THE   ONE    THING  NEEDFUL.  131 

Whatever  may  befall  me  ; 

Ready  to  stay  and  labor  on 

Until  my  work  be  done  ; 

Ready  to  go  when  God  shall  call  me. 

He  that  made  me  and  my  destiny 

Is  wise  and  true  ; 

Full  well  He  knows  His  royal  due, 

And  what  is  best  for  me. 

Oh  !  what  should  be  the  end  of  man 

But  simply  to  fulfil 

That  holy  will 

In  which  man's  being  first  began  ? 

My  end,  the  reason  of  my  being,  yea 

My  soul's  true  bliss, — 

All  lies  in  this  : 

To  live  for  Thee,  my  God,  only  for  Thee. 


THE  ONE  THING  NEEDFUL. 

Oh  !  how  crazy,  greedy,  busy, 

Giddy,  dizzy 

Is  this  world  that  we  live  in  ! 

Getting  money,  spending  money, 

Borrowing  and  lending  money, 

Coining  money  out  of  sin. 

Heaping  treasure,  seeking  pleasure, 

Seeking  honor,  without  even 

One  brief  hour  of  quiet  leisure 

For  the  daily  thought  of  heaven, 

Or  the  voice  within. 

Drowning  thought  in  peals  of  laughter ; 

Thinking  naught  of  an  hereafter 

Stretching  far  beyond  the  tomb, 

Whose  dread  portal 


132  OMNI  A   AD  DEI  G LORI  AM. 

To  each  mortal 

Is  the  gate  of  final  doom.. 

Oh  !  there  is  but  one  thing  needful  ! 

'T  is  to  reach  the  goal. 

Oh  !  there  is  bu,t  orte  thing  dreadful  ! 

'T  is  to  lose  the  soul, — 

Loss  beyond  all  computation, 

Loss  beyond  repair  ; 

Deep  privation,  desolation,  aggravation, 

Culmination  of  despair  ! 

Let  my  life  be  short,  or  long, 
Though  it  last  but  till  to-morrow  ; 
Feeble  be  my  steps,  or  strong, 
Full  of  joy  or  full  of  sorrow  ; 
Send  me  honor,  send  me  shame — 
It  is  all  the  same. 
Give  me  wealth,  or  let  me  beg 
Bread  upon  a  cripple's  leg, 
Limping  slow  from  door  to  door  ; — 
Save  my  soul  !     I  ask  no  more. 


OMNIA  AD  DEI  GLORIAM. 


O  God  !  this  world  is  fair  ; 
And  wonderful  the  tale  it  tells 
Of  Him  that  made  the  earth,  the  air, 
The  valleys,  and  the  hills, 
And  the  hoarse,  surging  sea. 
Lord, — 't  is  the  ancient  story — 
Thou  madest  all  these  for  Thy  glory. 
For  Thy  glory  man  was  made  to  be  ; 
And  I — I  hold  my  life  of  Thee, 


OMNIA   AD  DEI  GLORIAM.  133 

By  service  feudatory, 

But  not  in  simple  fee  ; 

My  Lord's  true  tenant 

Am  I,  bound  to  his  pennant, 

And  to  do  homage  feal  on  bended  knee, 

Into  this  world  I  came 

To  glorify  Thy  name. 

If  then,  amidst  the  sound; 

Of  this  great  hymn  which  breathes  around, 

And  fills  the  earth  and  sky, 

I  fail  to  raise  my  song  on  high 

To  my  Creator's  praise  ; 

If  my  unthankful  voice  is  still  ; 

O  !  if  I  miss  to  guide  my  ways 

By  Thy  most  holy  will ; 

If  here  I  fail,  I  fail  to  my  undoing ; 

Abortion  of  a  noble  plan, 

Distortion  of  a  shapely  man, 

Naught  am  I  but  a  living  ruin. 

Woe  then  is  me  ! 

Wrecked  shall  I  float,  and  drift  a-lee, 

Far  from  staunch  ship,  or  saving  shore  ; 

Far  from  my  God,  and  from  my  destiny ; 

Adrift,  lost,  tempest-tost  forevermore  ! 

n. 

All  creatures  speak  of  God.     The  story 

Is  everywhere  the  same. 

All  nature  glitters  with  His  glory, 

And  vibrates  to  His  name, 

And  what  have  I  to  say  ? 

What  tale  have  I  to  tell  ? 

Am  I  dumb,  in  a  crowd 

That  speak  so  loud, 


134  OMNI  A   AD  DEI  GLORIAM. 

And  so  well  ? 

Am  I  less  wise  than  they  ? 

I  should  be  a  mirror,  pure  and  bright, 

To  reflect  my  Maker's  face, 

That  all  who  look  at  me  may  trace 

His  form  at  second  sight. 

But  I  am  like  a  shattered  glass, 

With  many  facets,  and  no  true  face  ; 

And  they  that  pass 

Can  only  trace, 

In  the  rays  returning  from  my  soul, 

The  broken  and  distorted  features 

Of  frail  and  worthless  creatures, 

But  naught  of  the  perfect  Whole. 

Doing  slight  duty, 

Weaving  no  beauty, 

Speaking  no  truth, 

False  to  the  promise  of  my  youth, 

False  to  the  hand  from  which  1  spring, 

Seeking,  not  God's  glory,  but  my  own, 

(Yet,  save  in  Him,  with  claim  to  none) 

Outlawed,  and  wandering, 

A  work  am  I  by  Him  begun, 

But  never  done. 

Fabric  of  grace,  had  I  been  built, — 

Lorn  monument  of  guilt, 

Shall  I  ever  reach  my  end  ? 

Lord,  help  me  to  amend  ; 

Send  my  poor  soul  relief  ; 

To  wash  my  sins,  tears  of  true  grief  ; 

Grace  to  begin  my  life  anew  ; 

And  so  my  way  by  grace  pursue, 

That  the  glory  of  Thy  life  divine 

May  henceforth  be, 

In  some  degree, 

Reflected  back  in  mine. 


THE   SALVATION  OF   THE  SOUL.        135 


THE  SALVATION  OF  THE  SOUL. 


My  salvation  is  a  thought 

That  's  wondrous  old. 

Ere  the  great  world  was  wrought, 

Or  lay  rough  in  its  early  mould, 

Love  fashioned  a  sky  of  cloudless  blue 

For  me  in  the  heart  of  God. 

To  this  is  my  being  due. 

Christ,  for  this  cause,  came  down  and  trod 

This  woe-worn  soil, 

A  weary  while  ; 

Holy  Angels  come  and  go 

Back  and  forth, 

To  and  fro, 

Never  far,  though  all  unseen, 

From  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to  earth, 

Cleaving  swift  the  screen 

Of  spaceless,  bodiless  air 

That  lies  between, 

Busy  in  this  great  affair. 

All  the  wide  world  through, — 

High  Paradise,  and  deep  Hell  too, — 

My  soul's  salvation 

Is  in  litigation. 

Oh  !  in  this  business  have  I  naught  to  do  ? 

ii. 

Of  good  and  evil  a  tangled  tissue 

My  life  drags  on  ;  and  doubtful  is  the  issue. 

Shall  I  be  saved  ?     I  do  not  know. 

Shall  I  be  lost  ?    I  cannot  tell. 


136    THE  INSUFFICIENCY  OF  CREA  TURES. 

But  this  I  know  full  well, — 

That  neither  friend  nor  foe, 

With  all  their  power  to  help,  or  kill, 

The  grace  in  me, 

Can  change  the  current  of  my  destiny 

Without  my  will. 

Winged  Angels,  radiant  Saints, 

Listed  with  Christ  their  Prince, 

And  fighting  in  my  cause,  I  see  ; 

And  the  Holy  Spirit,  blent 

With  each  kindly  sacrament, 

Breathes  His  sweet  breath  on  me. 

But  my  salvation  still 

To  the  tenure  of  my  will 

Is  given. 

On  that  one  strand  hangs  all  my  heaven. 


THE   INSUFFICIENCY  OF  CREATURES. 


Far  have  I  looked,  long  waited, 

Yet  have  I  never  found 

In  any  thing  created 

A  true  and  solid  rest. 

Above  the  ground, 

If  such  thing  be, 

And  cometh  betimes  to  human  breast, 

It  cometh  not  to  me. 

Vain  are  all  creatures,  and  unstable, 

False,  insufficient,  and  unable 

To  satisfy  a  heart  like  mine. 

They  were  made  for  me,  not  I  for  them. 

I  was  created  for  things  divine — 


THE  INSUFFICIENCY  OF  CREA  TURES.    137 

For  God  ;  and  with  a  higher  aim 

Than  aught  mine  eyes  can  see. 

For  I  am  too  noble,  and  free, 

To  house  my  heart  in  clay. 

These  are  my  servants,  and  must  obey, 

They  are  my  means,  and  not  my  end  ; 

And  the  great  arc  of  my  destiny 

They  are  too  little  to  subtend. 

My  heart  indeed  they  occupy, 

But  cannot  satisfy  ; 

For  that  is  of  so  great  a  measure 

That  no  fortune,  love,  or  the  largest  pleasure, 

If  less  than  the  boundless  infinite, 

Can  ever  assuage  its  appetite. 

Vain  creatures,  leave  my  breast  ! 

Ye  are  too  small  to  fill  it  all  ; 

It  must  be  full,  or  find  no  rest. 

n. 

My  heart  is  like  a  river 

Which,  ever  and  ever, 

Presseth  onward  to  deliver 

The  burden  of  its  being  to  the  main  ; 

But  many  a  fountain-head, 

And  many  a  water-shed 

Fill  up  its  weary  bed 

With  gatherings  of  the  rain. 

So  ever  begins  its  race  of  pain. 

Where  it  flieth,  there  it  dwelleth  ; 

Emptieth  itself,  and  swelleth  ; 

Ever  disgusted  with  its  gains, 

It  taketh  always  new  increase 

From  streams  that  cannot  give  it  peace. 

My  heart  is  like  a  fire 
Which  higher,  ever  higher, 


138  BOCHIM. 

Leapeth  upward  with  desire 

To  ascend  to  its  sphere  ; 

But  never  it  recedeth 

From  the  fagots  where  it  feedeth, 

And  which  hold  its  ever  fluttering  spirit  here. 

So  my  poor  spirit  cherisheth, 

And  weakly  clings 

To  the  frivolous  things 

By  which  she  perisheth  ; 

And  yet,  inconstant  in  her  mood, 

Looks  upward  to  the  highest  good. 

0  God  !  break  up  this  strange  division, 
This  indecision. 

Lift  my  weak  soul  above 

All  earthly  love  ; 

That  upward  looking  to  Thy  throne, 

Oh,  my  best  hope,  and  only  one, 

1  may  love  Thee  alone  ! 


BOCHIM.1 

A   MEDITATION    FOR   LENT. 
JUDGES,  ii.,  1-6. 


God's  angel  came  to  Ha-Bochim. 

The  tribes  of  Israel  were  met 

By  Silo's  silent  rivulet. 

Bright  rose  the  sun  o'er  Jordan's  stream 

And,  looking  west, 

1  The  Hebrew  words  in  these  verses  are  pronounced  as  fol 
lows  :  Bokeem,  or  Ha-Bocheem  ;  Eloheem  ;  Seelo  ;  Geliloth 
requires  a  hard  G,  as  in  Galgal.  It  is  used  in  Jos.  xviii.,  18,  as 
another  name  for  that  place.  See  Calmet  Diet. 


BOCHIM.  139 

Fell  in  a  shower  of  sparkling  light 
On  the  high-priest's  jewelled  breast, 
And  made  each  warrior's  corslet  gleam  ; 
And  the  holy  hill  shine  bright 
As  an  infant's  dream. 

God's  Angel  came  from  Geliloth. 

In  fury  he  came, 

He  withered  the  grass  on  his  path 

Like  a  flame  ; 

And  the  air  that  shrunk  from  before  his  wrath 

Grew  into  a  storm  ere  he  came  ; 

And  the  Hebrew  crowd  grew  pale 

At  the  burning  words  of  Uriel. 

"  I  come  from  Geliloth. 

I  come  from  the  spot,  sacred  and  blest, 

Where  long  the  ark  of  God  found  rest. 

I  come  from  the  place  of  plighted  troth, 

Where  ye  made  your  covenant  with  Heaven, 

And  my  promises  were  given, 

Confirmed  by  solemn  oath. 

Ye  swore  to  let  no  idol  stand 

In  the  Holy  Land. 

I  swore,  by  my  own  name, 

To  scatter  your  foes  before  your  face 

With  fire  and  flame. 

I  come  from  the  holy  place  ; 

And  there — yea,  there 

The  idols  of  Moab  are  standing  now, 

And  the  worshippers  of  Baal  bow, 

Polluting  the  sweet  air. 

And  now  again  I  swear 

To  let  you  enemies  remain 

To  be  your  plague  and  your  bane. 

The  land  shall  be  to  you  unblest, 


140  BOCHIM. 

And  ye  shall  find  no  rest 

Therein  from  peril  and  pain. 

Bide  here  with  your  idols  and  your  foes  ; 

Ye  shall  have  no  repose 

Until  ye  turn  to  me  again." 

Herein  methinks  that  I  can  see 

My  past  career.     Like  an  open  scroll 

Dark  histories  before  me  roll. 

My  buried  sins  come  back  to  me. 

Before  me  in  my  path, 

Majestic  in  his  wrath, 

My  Angel  towers  like  a  flame, 

Calls  me  by  my  baptismal  name, 

Recounts  the  many  mercies  given, 

The  vows  I  registered  in  heaven, 

Points  to  the  idols  that  still  are  found 

In  my  soul,  like  Bel,  or  Ashtaroth, 

In  their  groves  upon  the  holy  ground 

Of  consecrated  Geliloth. 

Ah  !  greed,  and  sense,  and  pride  ! 

Woe  to  me  if  I  break  them  not  ! 

Woe  !  if  the  curse  forsake  me  not 

Ere  the  angel  leaves  my  side  ! 

ii. 

Why  wail  ye  so,  ye  vested  priests, 

On  the  bosom  of  Bochim  ? 

Why  do  the  women  strike  their  breasts, 

And  call  on  Elohim  ? 

Why  do  the  warriors  bow  their  crests 

O'er  Silo's  silent  stream  ? 

Why  does  the  sickle  lie  idle 

That  should  cut  the  golden  grain  ? 

Why  do  the  steeds  rush  over  the  plain 


BOCHIM.  141 

With  loosened  bridle  ? 

And  why  are  the  hill-sides  about  the  stream 

Named  Ha-Bochim  ? 

The  priests  wail  for  the  sins  of  the  past  ; 

They  wail  for  fear  ; 

They  wail  that  the  angel  of  God  is  near  ; 

They  wail  in  terror  of  the  blast  ; 

The  women  strike  their  breasts, 

And  call  on  Elohim  ; 

And  the  warriors  bow  their  crests 

O'er  Silo's  stream  ; 

And  the  steeds  have  broken  from  their  keepers  ; 

And  the  panic-stricken  reapers 

Are  gathered  in  Bochim, 

Because  of  the  angel  of  wrath  that  came 

With  storm,  and  fire,  and  flame 

To  break  the  dream 

Of  these  sinful  sleepers  ; 

And  the  meaning  of  the  name 

Bochim  is — "The  place  of  the  weepers." 

Dread  Angel  !  stand  thou  by  my  side  ! 

Question  this  heart  of  sin  and  pride  ! 

Bring  hither  my  idols  now  ! 

Bring  hither  every  broken  vow  ! 

And  let  my  soul  by  herself  be  tried 

In  her  secret  home, 

Before  the  door  shall  be  opened  wide, 

And  the  greater  trial  come. 

I  stand  beside  the  silent  stream  ; 

This  Lent  shall  be  my  Ha-Bochim, 

And  shame,  and  sorrow,  and  vigil  keeping 

Shall  sanctify  my  "  place  of  weeping." 


I42  ASH   WEDNESDAY. 


ASH  WEDNESDAY. 


"  Remember,  man,  that  thou  art  dust." 

Bow  low,  proud  head,  bow  low  ; 

Receive  the  ashes  on  thy  brow. 

Bend  down,  proud  heart,  for  bend  thou  must  ; 

Bend  down,  and  know 

How  little  room  thou  hast  for  pride. 

The  meanest  beggar  by  thy  side 

Is  made,  like  thee,  of  mire. 

Didst  think  thyself  a  little  higher  ? 

Is  there  something  in  thy  pedigree  ? 

Hast  thou  a  family  tree  ? 

Did  God  choose  richer  mud, 

And  from  its  juice  distil  thy  blood  ? 

Art  beautiful  ?  bethink  thee.     What 

Will  keep  thy  beauty  from  the  rot  ? 

Betrothed  to  foul  caressing  worms, 

Where  wilt  thou  treasure  up  thy  charms  ? 

Art  strong  ?     To  the  altar,  with  a  stride, 

And  push  that  weaker  clay  aside. 

Yet,  kneeling  think  how  thou  shalt  crumble, 

And  try,  one  moment,  to  be  humble. 

Hast  money  ?     Oh  !  then,  open  purse 

To  bribe  the  old  primeval  curse  ; 

And  if  it  will  not  stay  thy  doom, 

Buy  for  thy  dust  at  least  a  tomb. 

Art  office-holder  ?     Issue  writ. 

Perhaps  it  will  arrest  the  vermin  ; 

Teach  them  to  respect  thine  ermine, 

And  let  thee  mildew  slow  in  it. 

Thy  robe  becomes  thee,  lady.     So  ? 

Ah  !  sweeter  far  it  is,  and  prouder, 


ASH  WEDNESDAY.  143 

Thus  to  dissolve  to  costly  powder, 
Than  to  rot  in  calico  ! 
Perhaps  thou  hast  a  deeper  pride  ; 
Deeming  thyself  a  child  of  grace, 
Thou  pityest  these  who  take  their  place, 
All  sinful,  by  thy  side. 

0  God,  in  mercy  hasten  to  me  ; 
Humble  my  pride  ;  subdue  me, 

And  this  one  truth  into  my  bosom  burn  : 
That,  made  of  dust,  to  dust  I  shall  return. 

/ 
n. 

Lord  !  I  am  dust.     And  yet, 

This  frame,  so  frail,  is  not  the  whole. 

1  have  a  soul, 

Into  a  nobler  fabric  knit 

Than  could  be  made  of  clay  ; 

A  self  which  never  can  decay. 

It  is  not  earth,  and  cannot  rot  ; 

Though  it  can  sin,  as  earth  cannot. 

Oh  !  it  can  be  a  meaner  slave  ; 

And  it  can  fill  a  deeper  grave. 

I  bring  to-day  a  deeper  shame 

Than  simple  flesh  can  claim. 

Made  to  a  heavenly  mould, 

Heir  to  a  wealth  untold, 

Bondsman  am  I  to  dust. 

Therefore  I  may,  and  must 

Bow  down  to-day,  while  Thou  dost  spread 

The  ashes  on  my  shameful  head. 

Lord,  Thou  canst  humble,  and  Thou  canst  bless  ! 

Look  down  on  my  distress  ; 

And  through  this  day's  humiliation, 

Guide  my  sick  soul  to  its  salvation. 


144  LIFE  BREAD. 

LIFE   BREAD. 

[A   MEDITATION  FOR  LENT.] 


I  seek  some  sure  resource  ;  something 

Behind  my  life,  or  underneath, 

Deeper  than  blood  or  breath  ; 

Some  stay,  or  staff,  some  store,  or  spring, 

That  doth  my  being  underlie, 

And  power  to  live  supply. 

What  is  it,  and  whose  to  give  ? 

Let  me  know,  for  death  I  dread. 

Is  it  bread  ? 

Let  me  know,  for  I  would  live, 

And  not  die  in  the  desert  here. 

Tell  me,  some  one  ! 

Cometh  a  voice  to  my  ear  ; 

Cometh  a  voice  solemn  and  clear  : 

"  Man  doth  not  live  by  bread  alone." 

Man  doth  not  live  by  bread  alone  ! 

Lord,  whereby  liveth  he  ? 

Tell  me  the  mystery, 

If  the  mystery  may  be  known. 

"  Life  hangeth  on  My  breath. 

Man  liveth  by  My  will. 

I  am  the  reason  of  life,  and  death  ; 

I  am  life's  Lord. 

I  gave  man  life,  and  he  liveth  still 

By  the  power  of  My  word. 

I  give  and  I  take, 

I  make  and  unmake. 

Wouldst  thou  live  long  ? 


LIFE  BREAD.  145 

Look  for  thy  living  to  the  strong. 

What  the  Tempter  says  in  thine  ear, 

Albeit  inopportune,  is  true  : 

I  could  thy  life  renew 

In  this  desert  here, 

By  making  bread  of  the  senseless  stone  ; 

Or  I  can  leave  thee  hungry  and  fasting, 

Yet  make  thy  living  everlasting. 

Man  doth  not  live  by  bread  alone." 


II. 

Man  liveth  not  by  bread  alone. 

This  animal  strife, 

Brief  struggle  for  breath,  which  men  call  life, 

Begun  by  a  moan 

In  the  midwife's  ear 

And  a  tear, — 

Signals  of  misery  soon  made. 

Soon  smothered  by  a  spade  ; — 

This  little  span 

From  youth  to  age, 

Quick  clatter  over  a  bridge, 

Can  never  measure  man. 

No  thought  can  trace, 

No  fancy  space, 

That  world  of  being  beyond  the  skies 

Where  true  life  lies. 

What  's  bread  to  him  that  needs  not  ? 

What  's  food  to  him  that  feeds  not  ? 

What  's  living  where  no  breath  is  ? 

What  's  dying  where  no  death  is  ? 

Give  me  a  breath 

Can  keep  away  the  second  death  ! 

Give  me  a  bread 

Will  hold  life  in  the  living  dead  ! 


146  ONE  BY  ONE. 

O  come,  deep  silence  !  Ah  !  let  me  hear 
That  living  and  life-giving  word, 
Which  only  can  be  heard 
In  solitude,  by  the  loving  ear. 
Eternal  truth,  be  thou  to  me 
Bread,  breath,  pulse,  seeing,  sound  ! 
All  that  I  need  of  life  is  found 
In  Thee,  my  God,  in  Thee. 


ONE  BY  ONE. 


We  live  like  sheep,  in  crowds  ;  but  die 

One  by  one. 

Little  cares  death  for  family, 

Or  circles  of  society, 

Extensive  kith,  or  courtly  tone. 

Heedless  of  every  social  tie, 

He  summons  us  to  die 

Alone. 

Good  seems  it  to  be  in  company, 

And  not  alone. 

Companions  lend  security  ; 

They  seem  our  lives  to  justify, 

Our  consciences  to  fortify. 

Alas  ;  they  help  us  not  to  die. 

No  ;  one  by  one, 

Through  the  dark  door  we  pass  ;  and  I 

Must  die  alone. 

Ah  !  must  I  die  alone  ? 
Must  I  go  single  through  that  iron  door, 
Where  all  that  pass  return  no  more ; 
Where  all  that  I  have  seen,  and  known, 


ONE  BY  ONE. 

And  loved  in  nature,  to  me  dies  ; 

Forever  shut  my  eyes 

To  all  the  natural  doth  prize  ? 

Must  I  draw  nigh 

The  Judge  upon  His  throne 

All  unsupported,  and  alone, 

And  meet  His  awful  eye  ? 

How  will  the  naked  truth  appear, 

With  only  God  to  hear  ? 

n. 

We  live  in  crowds  ;  and,  living  so, 

Like  fools,  we  gage 

Our  after-life  of  weal,  or  woe,  - 

Upon  the  moral  average. 

Say  I  :  "  We  are  all  brothers. 

God  will  not  damn 

Such  as  I  am, 

At  cost  of  damning  all  these  others." 

O  fairy  scheme  ! 

0  airy  dream  ! 

This  is  the  Devil's  broadway, 

The  way  to  Heaven  is  another  roadway. 

We  go  to  judgment  one  by  one, 

Each  baring  his  breast 

To  the  great  inquest, 

Measured  by  law  alone. 

Except  I  show  true  penance  done  ; 

A  stern  resolve,  with  heart's  deep  pain, 

Never  to  sin  again, 

And  true  fruit  growing  thereupon  ; — 

My  cause  is  gone. 

No  crowd  can  aught  avail  me. 

My  fellows  will  all  fail  me. 

1  shall  be  judged  alone. 


148  SOLITUDE  AND   SILENCE. 

SOLITUDE  AND    SILENCE. 
[FROM  THOMAS  A  KEMPIS.] 


The  more  I  see  of  men,  the  less  a  man  am  I. 
'T  is  only  in  the  night  that  we  can  see  the  sky. 
'T  is  only  when  the  earth  is  hid  that  heaven  comes 
nigh. 

This  lesson  have  I  found  all  my  life  through  ; 
The  more  I  learned  of  men,  the  less  I  knew  ; 
For,  by  false  lights,  they  darken  the  beautiful  and 
true. 

We  hear  too  much  of  a  science  that  is  not  so. 

We  see  too  many  sights  that  are  mere  show. 

By  the  closing  of  our  eyes  and  ears,  wiser  we  grow. 

Wouldst  know  the  rule  to  find  the  only  true  and 

good  ? 

Go  shut  thy  closet  door  ;  let  none  intrude. 
God  teaches  the  still  heart  in  solitude. 

ii. 

The  silence  of  the  cell  is  full  of  holy  thought. 

Angels  come  visiting  when  men  go  out. 

To  souls  that  stay  at  home  they  come  unsought. 

There  solemn   voices    speak   that    only   speak    by 

night. 

There  truths  distorted  and  confused  are  seen  aright, 
And  the  words  of  Holy  Scripture  gleam  with  gol 
den  light. 


THE  FOLLOWING  OF  CHRIST.  149 

Then  lessons  come  from  lips  that  speak  no  more  ; 
And  holy  aspirations,  such  as  moved  us  heretofore  ; 
And  tears  spring  to  our  eyes  for  sins  that  we  de 
plore  ; 

And  a  sweet  voice  whispers,  "  Peace,"  a  voice  we 

know  ; 

And  melodies  stir  in  the  soul,  solemn  and  low  ; 
And  the  cell  seems  full  of  Heaven  that  was  lone  a 

moment  ago. 


THE  FOLLOWING  OF  CHRIST. 

[FROM  THOMAS  A  KEMPIS.] 


"  Who  follows  Me  walks  not  in  the  night." 

These  are  the  Master's  words.     Take  heed, 

And  learn  to  read 

Their  meaning  right. 

Wouldst  be  Christ's  follower  indeed  ; 

From  blindness  of  the  heart  be  freed  ? 

Then  let  His  life  be  thy  life's  light. 

Do  as  He  did.     Work  as  He  wrought. 

Teach  as  He  taught.     Think  as  He  thought. 

Seek  earnestly  and  solely  what  He  sought. 

As  true  disciple  of  His  school, 

Conform  in  all  things  to  His  rule. 

Let  the  spirit  of  thy  Master  enter, 

And  possess  thee, 

And  repress  thee,  and  redress  thee 

To  thy  soul's  centre  ; 

And  so  transform  thee  from  the  thing  thou  art, 

To  be  His  likeness  and  true  counterpart. 


15°  YESTERDAY. 

II. 

What  will  it  profit  thee  to  know 

All  that  is  written  of  divinity  ? 

What  gain  will  come  to  thee,  if  thou  couldst  show 

The  depths  which  underlie  the  Trinity  ? 

If  thou  art  not  yet  humble,  friend, 

Thou  art  still  far  from  God  ; 

Thou  hast  lost  time  upon  the  road  ; 

This  wisdom  will  not  help  thee  in  the  end. 

O  folly  of  vain  desire  ! 

What  wilt  thou  gather  from  thy  learning, 

When  thou  thyself  art  burning, 

Belettered  and  belittered  in  hell  fire  ? 

O  folly  !  folly  !  every  thought  is  folly 

Save  this  alone, — 

To  follow  Jesus  wholly, 

And  in  His  life  to  lose  thine  own. 


YESTERDAY. 


What  is  this  we  call  yesterday  ? 

A  ripple  mark  in  the  sand  ; 

And  the  next  wave  that  floods  the  strand 

Washes  it  all  away. 

A  child  breathes  on  the  window  glass, 

And  writes  his  name  on  the  frost  ; 

So  light  a  record  is  yesterday, 

And  so  quickly  is  it  lost. 

We  name  it  when  no  longer  here  ; 

We  name  it  when  not  ours. 

We  crown  it  with  fond  flowers, 

And  christen  it,  on  its  bier. 


YESTERDAY. 

Alas  !  alas  !  for  yesterday  ! 
When  I  laid  me  down  to  rest, 
It  lay  folded  to  my  breast  ; 
But  in  my  sleep  it  stole  away. 
Ah  !  is  it  so  soon  gone, 
With  its  perils,  its  immunities, 
And  such  golden  opportunities 
To  do  good  deeds,  not  done  ? 
Where  are  they  now  ?     Oh  !  where 
Those  secret  inspirations, 
Those  gentle,  gracious  invitations, 
To  walk  with  God  in  prayer  ? 
Will  they  not  return  to-day  ? 
Are  they  gone,  and  gone  forever  ? 
Will  no  petition,  no  endeavor, 
Redeem  what  I  lost  yesterday  ? 


n. 

Has  yesterday  gone,  gone  quite  ? 

Is  it  nothing  now  but  a  date  ? 

Has  it  sunk  with  all  its  freight, 

Like  a  ship,  out  of  sight  ? 

Has  it  left  no  record  of  my  errors  ? 

And,  if  now  perchance  I  walk  upright, 

Will  it  therefore  not  return  to  fright 

My  soul  with  terrors, 

In  spite  of  her  placid  boasts  ? 

Has  the  petty  goodness  of  to-day 

Blotted  all  of  yesterday's  sins  away  ? 

See  !  see  them  coming  back  like  ghosts, 

With  all  their  murdered  hours  ! — these  days, 

The  yesterday,  and  the  yesterday  before, 

And  so  many,  many  more  ! 

See  them  behind  each  other  gaze, 

With  my  sins  glistening  in  their  eyes  ! 


152  TO-DAY. 

Can  that  which  Heaven  and  I  have  seen 
Be  ever  as  though  it  had  not  been  ? 
Ah  !  memory  sleeps,  but  never  dies. 


TO-DAY. 


In  the  long  calendar  of  years 

One  little  point  of  time  appears, 

One  point  alone 

Which  I  can  call  my  own, — 

To-day. 

Alas  !  I  can  but  claim  it. 

Scarce  time  have  I  to  name  it, 

When,  like  a  dream,  it  floats  away. 

Sure,  this  is  my  house,  and  this  my  land  ! 

I  have  the  title  deeds  at  hand  ; — 

Meadow,  and  orchard,  and  garden  spot, 

So  many  acres  to  the  lot 

By  the  map  of  survey. 

Alas  !  alas  !  there  's  a  flaw  in  my  deed. 

My  title  is  only  guaranteed 

For  to-day. 

God's  truth  !  my  tenure  is  very  poor  ; 

My  freehold  a  foothold,  and  no  more. 

To-morrow  I  may  be  clay, 

And  the  land  which  now  I  hold  in  fee 

Become  freeholder,  and  hold  me. 

God  !  teach  me  this  lesson,  I  pray  ; 
How  quickly  life  doth  pass  away. 
Freighted  with  hopes  as  heaven  high, 
And  boundless  as  the  boundless  sky, 
'T  is  but  a  day. 


TO-MORROW.  153 

A  body  lewd,  and  a  spirit  proud  ; 
A  clay-cold  form  in  a  white  shroud. 
So  endeth  many  a  play. 

n. 

To-day  the  grass  grows  bright  and  green, 
Its  banners  waving  gay. 
To-morrow  the  reaper  walks  between 
The  rows  of  hay. 

So  gay  and  bright  the  life  we  lead  ; 
So  speeds  that  life  away  ; 
And  to-morrow  gathers  in  her  dead, 
Where  all  is  bloom  to-day. 

To-day  the  voice  of  mercy  calls  : 

"  Come  away  !  " 

Solemn  and  sweet  on  the  ear  it  falls. 

Obey !  obey  ! 

To-morrow  morning  may  give  no  warning 

So  kind  as  this  to-day. 

O  hasten  !  see  to  your  soul's  adorning 

While  still  you  may. 


TO-MORROW. 

i. 

To-morrow  advances  apace,  apace. 
Beware  ! 

Her  step  is  grand,  and  full  of  grace. 
Take  care  ! 

Oh  !  many  and  cruel  are  her  wiles  ; 
There  's  falsehood  in  her  dimpling  smiles  ; 
And  souls  to  ruin  she  beguiles 
By  the  ringlets  of  her  hair. 
She  walks  behind  a  hollow  mask. 
Beware  ! 


I  54  TO-MORRO  W. 

She  will  promise  all  you  choose  to  ask. 

Take  care  ! 

Soft  whispers  glide  from  her  honeyed  tongue, 

As  sweet  as  the  notes  of  that  Siren  song 

Which  lured  the  mariner  along 

To  shipwreck  and  despair. 

She  comes  with  nosegay  of  tender  flowers. 

Beware  ! 

They  are  made  of  the  dreams  of  wasted  hours. 

Take  care 

Her  gardens  are  strewn  with  buds  half  blown, 

Resolves  to  no  perfection  grown, 

Unheeded  graces,  duties  undone, 

Lip-lifting  without  prayer. 

Leave  not  till  to-morrow  thy  purpose  weak. 

Beware  ! 

All  life  that  is  earnest  and  real  breathes  quick. 

Take  care  ! 

To-day  is  a  live  and  life-giving  tree  ; 

But  what  is  to-morrow,  my  soul,  to  thee 

But  a  dream,  and  a  snare  ? 

II. 

Shall  we  have  sunshine  or  rain  to-morrow  ? 

Ask  not. 

Is  there  promise  of  peace  or  pain  to-morrow  ? 

Fear  not, 

God  watches  in  all  weathers.     Pray, 

And  do  thy  duty  well  to-day. 

Say  !  will  to-morrow  bring  raiment  and  bread  ? 
Ask  not. 

Ask  the  young  ravens  how  they  are  fed. 
Fear  not. 


LOST  AND  FOUND.  155 

Look  at  the  lilies  how  they  are  arrayed  ! 
Thou  hast  less  reason  to  be  afraid. 

Does  life  grievous  and  tedious  seem  ? 

Fret  not. 

'T  is  at  best  but  a  toss  through  a  troubled  dream. 

Faint  not. 

Sufficient  grace  for  to-day  is  given  ; 

To-morrow  is  one  day  nearer  Heaven. 


LOST  AND  FOUND. 

i. 

Forth  from  the  garden  gate  they  fly  ; 
Upward  their  aimless  arms  are  tossed 

In  wild  despair. 

Ah  !  guilty  pair  ! 
It  is  decreed  that  ye  shall  die. 
No  wonder  that  your  only  cry 

Is  "  Lost  !  lost  !  lost !  " 

'T  is  not  the  thought  of  breath, 
The  body  yielding  up  its  ghost, 

Fills  them  with  fear  ; 

But  in  their  ear 

Rings  out  in  tones  of  awful  wrath 
The  sentence  of  the  second  death, — 

Lost !  lost  !  lost !  lost  ! 

Lost  to  the  hope  of  paradise  ; 

Lost  to  all  that  which  counts  for  most ; 

The  vision  flown  ; 

The  birthright  gone  ; 
The  soul's  best,  highest,  dearest  prize, 
To  see  God  with  unclouded  eyes, 

Is  lost,  all  lost. 


1 56  THE   WEDDING  GARMENT. 

II. 

Yet,  lo  !  a  rainbow  born  of  tears  ! 
And,  sprinkled  with  its  diamond  dust, 

In  the  wilderness 

An  oasis, 

A  grassy  hill  of  green  appears, 
Whereon  a  tree  broad  arms  uprears, 

To  save  the  lost ! 

What  lavish  love  for  mercy's  sake  ! 
The  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost 

Combine  to  give 

A  new  reprieve, 
Another  plank,  a  second  deck, 
To  save  the  soul  after  shipwreck, 

From  being  lost. 

Oh  !  when  I  think  of  this  new  hope  ! 

Oh  !  when  I  think  how  much  it  cost- 
That  blood-stained  road  ! 
That  murdered  God  ! 

Not  I  such  flow  of  grace  will  stop, 

Nor  waste  of  blood  so  dear  one  drop. 
I  '11  not  be  lost. 


THE  WEDDING  GARMENT. 
MATT,  xxii.,  u. 

I. 

The  chandeliers  glow  bright 
In  the  marriage  hall. 
Floor,  wainscoting,  and  wall 
Are  surfeited  with  light. 


THE   WEDDING   GARMENT.  l 

Loud  music  fills  the  air. 

A  thousand  feet 

Are  gathered  there, 

All  waiting  joyously  to  greet 

The  royal  Bridegroom  and  His  Bride. 

She  stands  by  His  side 

In  blissful  innocency,  pure,  and  good, 

With  a  maiden's  bashful  blood, 

But  a  matron's  pride. 

All  richly  dight 

In  virgin  white, 

The  Bridesmaids  cluster  round  their  Queen. 

Bending  like  turf  beneath  their  tread, 

The  carpet  shows  so  bright  and  clean 

In  every  thread 

Of  brown,  or  green,  or  gold,  or  red, 

It  seems  new  woven,  and  just  laid. 

From  the  noblest  to  the  last  and  least 

That  gather  there,  each  guest 

Is  robed  in  his  costliest  and  best, 

And  ready  for  the  feast. 

But  hold  !     Say,  who  is  this 

That  enters  without  a  wedding  dress  ? 

What  rude  unmannerly  clown 

Comes  thus  unseemly  in 

From  the  dust  and  dirt  of  the  town, 

Dishonoring  all  the  rest, 

But  bringing  chiefly  shame  and  chagrin 

To  the  Lord  of  the  feast  ? 

Quick  !  Open  the  door  ! 

Chase  the  varlet  out  from  sight  ! 

Chase  him  forth  into  the  night 

Where  he  was  before  ! 

Chase  him  out  from  the  light ! 

Forgotten  be  his  name  ; 


158  THE   WEDDING   GARMENT. 

And  his  doom 

Be  shame  on  shame, 

And  gloom  on  gloom  ! 

ii. 

Who  art  thou  that  goest,  so  meekly  bent 
And  yet  so  confident, 
To  the  table  of  the  Lord  ? 
Needs  must  this  Sacrament 
Be  by  all  men  adored  ; 
But  only  the  pure  in  heart 
May  take  their  part 
In  this  dear  food, 

Feed  on  this  Flesh,  and  drink  this  Blood. 
Tell  me,  my  son, 

Hast  thou  thy  wedding  garment  on  ? 
Say  !  hast  thou  bathed  in  that  crystal  flood 
Where  sin  is  washed  away  ? 
Hast  thou  bethought  thyself  to  pray 
For  clearer  sight 
To  see  thy  sins  aright  ? 
Hast  thou  reviewed  the  laws  of  God 
In  simple  verity  ; 

Measured  thy  conscience  by  that  code 
In  sad  sincerity  ? 

Hast  thou  retraced  the  by-gone  years, 
And  watered  the  way  with  tears  ? 
Is  all  repented  and  confessed  ? 
Hast  thou  left  nothing  unredressed  ? 
Is  every  sin  forsaken  ? 
Is  every  needful  resolution  taken  ? 

Then  go,  thou  happy  penitent,  in  peace  ! 
About  thee  fold  thy  wedding  dress  ; 
And  pray  that  He  who  gives  this  grace 
May  give  each  day  increase. 


A    CRY  FOR  A    HOME.  159 


A  CRY  FOR  A  HOME. 


My  heart  cries  out  for  home  ; 
Nowhere  can  I  find  ease. 
Times  of  repose  to  others  come  ; 
Birds  have  a  cottage  in  the  trees, 
Or  some  sure  homestead  in  the  sand  ; 
The  gull  returns  to  rest  on  the.  land. 
Where  is  my  home  ? 

What !  Pilgrim,  callest  thou  for  home  ? 

Life  has  no  place  for  rest ; 

'T  is  but  a  wayside  inn  at  best. 

Have  patience  till  the  Master  come. 

Keep  thy  lamp  trimmed,  and  burning  bright, 

And  wait  for  the  happy  nuptial  night. 

Heaven  is  thy  home. 


n. 

If  Heaven  is  my  home, 

I  would  fain  be  there  now. 

I  am  not  fit  to  dig  and  plough  ; 

Labor  is  hard  and  wearisome. 

For  those  that  worn  and  weary  are, 

Heaven  is  all  too  far. 

Come  quickly,  O  sweet  home  ! 

Ah  !  sluggard,  cease  thy  talk  of  home. 

Look  !  see  it  standing  near 

With  all  the  faithful  heart  holds  dear. 


l6o       TRUSTFUL  AND  SIMPLE  PRAYER. 

What  is  't  thou  flyest  from  ? 
Home  is  where  thy  work  is  given. 
Where  love  and  duty  lie  is  Heaven. 
God  is  thy  home. 


TRUSTFUL  AND  SIMPLE  PRAYER. 


Happy  for  us  that  for  Himself  God  made  us, 
Since  to  His  own  an  owner's  love  He  oweth. 
Happy  for  us  that  His  own  work  He  knoweth. 
So  made  and  marked,  His  care  is  pledged  to  aid  us. 

He  knoweth  every  hap  ere  it  befalls  us  ; 
Foresees  the  failures  wherefrom  grows  our  need. 
He  gave  the  very  voice  wherewith  we  plead  ; 
Yea,  to  the  blessings  which  we  call  for  calls  us. 

No  praying  ever  takes  Him  by  surprise. 
He  sees  us  comimg  while  we  hesitate. 
Our  knocking  finds  Him  waiting  at  the  gate  ; 
His  smile  is  ready  ere  we  raise  our  eyes. 

Love  made  us.     Has  not  love  the  right  of  rule  ? 
Kneel  to  Him  loyally  ;  He  claims  your  fealty. 
Freely  confess  to  Him  ;  He  knows  your  frailty. 
Ask  boldly,  for  his  hands  are  always  full. 

n. 

Go  straight  to  God.     He  can  do  every  thing. 
His  holy  hands  are  gauntleted  with  power. 
High  Heaven  is  garrisoned  at  every  tower 
With  eager  angels  fluttering  on  the  wing. 


THE  KING   OF  HEARTS,  l6l 

The  ministers  and  messengers  of  love  are  they. 
Why  should  we  hesitate,  and  be  afraid 
To  go,  and  go,  and  go,  and  go  again  ? 
Is  any  thing  more  simple  than  to  pray  ? 

Pray  softly.     God  is  always  very  near  us  ; 
No  need  to  deafen  Heaven  with  cry  and  shout. 
Knock  confidently  ;  He  is  never  out  ; 
Never  so  busy  that  He  cannot  hear  us. 

Pray  simply.     Use  no  verbiage,  no  art. 
All  forms  of  speech  alike  to  Him  are  known. 
To  Him  the  sweetest  language  is  our  own. 
God  loves  the  simple  grammar  of  the  heart. 


THE  KING  OF  HEARTS. 


Oh  !  who  can  govern  the  human  heart, 
Its  thoughts  divine,  its  throbs  restrain  ? 
It  is  a  realm  that  stands  apart, 
Lone  and  sequestered  ;  a  domain 
Belted  by  no  coast,  or  border, 
Fended  by  no  wall,  or  warder  ; 
Yet  into  that  trackless  inland  state 
No  foot  of  man  can  penetrate. 
There  God  commands, 
And  His  will  it  is,  and  joy, 
To  hold  the  helm  in  His  own  hands 
Without  either  Vicar  or  Viceroy. 
Wise  Master  in  His  art  of  arts, 
He  sits  alone  upon  His  throne, 
The  King  of  Hearts. 

Oh  !  the  heart  is  fickle  and  full  of  pride, 
Hard  to  rule,  and  harder  to  guide. 


1 62  THE  KING   OF  HEARTS. 

God  loves  withal  the  wayward  creature. 

To  Him  it  is  more  truly  dear, 

The  object  of  more  tender  care 

Than  the  whole  realm  of  outer  nature, 

Or  all  the  civil  rule  of  nations. 

Oh  !  can  it  be, 

My  heart,  that  God  thus  deals  with  thee  ; 

And  thou,  in  thy  pulsations, 

So  proudly  calm,  so  strangely  cool, 

Unconscious  of  His  royal  rule  ! 

II. 

Always  restless  and  unquiet, 

What  the  heart  wants  it  never  knows  • 

Poorer  by  every  gain  it  grows, 

Nothing  can  satisfy  it. 

Yea,  the  wide  world,  though  it  had  all, 

Is  yet  too  small 

To  occupy  it. 

Give  all  it  asks,  and  it  asks  still. 

It  is  an  abyss 

Of  aching  weariness 

Which  only  the  infinite  can  fill. 

Poor  heart  !  couldst  fathom  thine  own  mind, 

True  bliss  is  not  so  hard  to  find. 

That  which  thou  seekest  is  not  far, 

Hid  in  no  dim  and  distant  star. 

Gaze  not  away  into  the  sky 

With  that  sad  and  weary  eye. 

Close  down  thy  lids  ;  shut  out  the  night ; 

Reverse  the  lenses  of  thy  sight. 

What  thou  dost  lack  is  very  nigh, 

When  seen  aright 

By  the  purer  rays  of  the  inward  light. 


THE  SPIRIT  TO  THE  CHURCHES.         163 

Stir  not  !  Stay  where  thou  art  ; 

The  King  of  Bliss  is  near. 

His  very  palace  is  here, 

And  His  throne  is  the  human  heart. 


THE  SPIRIT  TO  THE  CHURCHES. 

[FROM  THE  APOCALPYSE.] 


Let  him  hear  that  hath  an  ear  !     Let  him  hear  the 

Spirit  speaking  ! 

I  know  thy  works.     I  know  what  thou  hast  done 
In  the  days  now  past  and  gone. 
I  know  thy  patient  years  of  self-denial. 
I  know  thy  fortitude  in  trial. 
I  Ve  seen  thy  readiness 
To  aid  thy  brethren  in  distress. 
I  Ve  seen  thee  come,  with  loving  care, 
To  deck  my  altar  with  bright  flowers. 
A  sweeter  tribute  brought  the  hours 
Which  saw  thee  kneeling, 
When  thy  full  heart  spoke,  and  heard, 
By  simple  feeling, 
Needing  no  intermediate  word. 
Thy  prayers  and  tears, 
Thy  trustful  hopes,  thy  humble  fears, 
Have  all  been  noted  by  an  eye 
That  lets  no  love  go  by 
Unregistered,  or  unrequited, 
Be  it  only  a  syllable  of  prayer, 
Or  a  sigh  into  the  soundless  air. 
I  've  seen  thee  in  thy  poverty, 
Wherein  thy  very  need 
Did  make  thee  rich  ;  for  he 


164         THE  SPIRIT  TO  THE  CHURCHES. 

Whose  heart  is  poor  is  rich  indeed. 
From  false  apostles  thou  hast  turned, 
And  their  pretences  spurned  ; 
Yet  willingly  thy  trust  hast  given 
To  the  true  messengers  of  Heaven. 

Yet,  stay  a  moment  j  stay,  and  hear  the  Spirit  speak 
ing  ! 

All  is  not  well. 

Something  I  have  against  thee. 
These  by-gone  years  should  have  advanced  thee, 
Not  left  thee  standing  still. 
Nay,  thou  hast  lost  thy  early  love. 
Thy  heart,  in  growing  older, 
Has  grown  most  strangely  colder, 
And  hard  to  move. 

Behold  !  I  stand  and  knock  at  the  door. 
Shall  I  knock  in  vain  ? 
If  thou  hear  me  now,  I  come  again  ; 
If  not,  I  come  no  more. 

II. 

Let  him  hear  that  hath  an  ear  !    Let  him  hear  the 

Spirit  speaking  ! 

I  know  thy  works.     They  please  me  not, 
As  in  the  days  of  old. 
Thou  'rt  neither  warm,  nor  cold. 
Would  thou  wert  either  cold,  or  hot  ! 
Would  thou  wert  either  living,  or  dead, 
Since  the  signs  of  life  are  fled  ! 
I  cannot  bear 

This  set  machinery  of  prayer. 
I  sicken  ;  yea,  my  soul  revolts 
At  these  dull  duties,  more  than  nobler  faults. 
More  desolate  than  death 


KING  DAVID'S  PENANCE.  165 

Is  this  lingering  of  faint  breath, 
With  death  so  nigh. 
If  life  be  not  amended, 
'T  would  be  relief 
From  a  long  grief 
To  have  the  matter  ended, 
And  see  thee  die. 

Oh  !  laggard  soul,  recall  the  height 
Whence  thou  art  fallen,  and  thy  steps  retrace. 
Resume  thy  works  of  early  grace  ; 
Or  I  will  come,  with  angry  might, 
To  move  thy  candle  from  its  place, 
And  quench  thy  flickering  light. 
Let  him  hear  that  hath  an  ear !  Let  him  hear  the 
Spirit  speaking  ! 


KING  DAVID'S  PENANCE. 

i. 

Why  mourns  King  David  so  bitterly  ? 
On  a  sleepless  couch  he  lies  ; 
And  "  Amplius  lava  me  !  "  he  cries, 
Like  a  heart  that  is  broken  utterly. 

He  moans  in  his  palace  so  bitterly, 
Because  a  Prophet  has  been  there, 
And  charged  him,  as  only  a  Prophet  dare, 
With  murder  and  foul  lechery. 

Why  weeps  King  David  so  bitterly  ? 
Is  not  hig  sin  forgiven  ? 
Are  not  the  shriving  words  from  Heaven 
Engrossed  in  Heaven's  chancery  ? 

His  sin  is  forgiven,  but  not  all, 

"  From  thy  house  the  sword  shall  not  depart. 


1 66  KING  DAVID'S  PENANCE. 

This  doom  is  written  on  his  heart, 
And  blazoned  on  his  palace  wall. 

Why  fasteth  King  David  so  bitterly  ? 
The  day  of  his  sin  is  now  long  gone. 
Has  penance  not  been  rightly  done  ? 
Yea,  done  ;  but  not  entirely. 

Deeds  have  been  done  ;  words  have  been  spoken. 
That  which  has  been  can  be  no  more. 
The  dusk  of  years  cannot  restore 
The  sleep  of  innocence  once  broken. 

The  cry  of  the  broken  heart  alway 
For  sin  is  "  Amplius  lava  me  !" 

n. 

I  went  to  my  guide 

With  a  sin  of  my  youth  ; 

I  would  have  told  him  the  same  truth, 

Kneeling  and  weeping  at  his  side, 

As  I  told  it  him  before. 

But  he  bade  me  give  o'er. 

'T  is  already  confessed  and  shriven,  he  said  ; 

Penance  was  done  as  given,  he  said  ; 

Tears  have  been  offered  to  Heaven,  he  said  ; 

Tell  the  tale  to  me  no  more. 

His  words  I  could  not  well  gainsay  ; 

But  still  my  tears  were  flowing, 

And  ever  the  cry  of  my  heart  outgoing 

Was  "  Amplius  lava  me  !  " 

Nay,  stay  awhile,  Brother,  he  said,  I  pray, 
If  no  vain  scruple  urge  thee  ; 
But  thou,  like  David,  wouldst  deeper  lave 
In  the  cleansing  wave, 


THE   RED  RIVER.  l6? 

And  with  keener  penance  purge  thee  ; 
Let  it  be  so. 

In  these  red  waves  thou  canst  not  drown  ; 
And  for  thy  consolation,  know, — 
However  deep  thou  wilt  go  down, 
The  sweetest  grace  is  still  below. 


THE  RED  RIVER. 


I  saw  them  wash  in  the  red  river 

At  the  rising  of  the  sun. 

I  saw  them  wash  in  the  red  river 

At  the  hot  hour  of  noon. 

They  washed  their  garments  in  the  river 

When  the  day  was  nearly  gone. 

Their  garments  grew  whiter  and  whiter 
As  the  red  stream  flowed  on. 
Their  faces  grew  brighter  and  brighter  ; 
But  alway  their  tears  fell  down  ; 
And  their  labor  grew  none  the  lighter 
For  the  work  that  had  been  done. 

Rest  now,  ye  weary  penitents, 
And  lay  your  washing  down  ! 
Joy  now,  ye  pardoned  criminals, 
And  put  your  white  robes  on  ! 
Look  up,  ye  heirs  of  Paradise, 
And  see  the  golden  crown  ! 

"  We  may  not  rest  from  labor, 
Nor  cease  to  weep  and  groan. 
It  is  no  time  for  robing, 
Till  every  spot  is  gone. 


1 68  GETHSEMANE. 

We  cannot  look  for  crowning 
Till  all  life's  work  is  done." 

n. 

Boast  not  too  soon  of  sins  forgiven. 

Be  slow  to  lay  thy  penance  by. 

Be  slow  to  count  thy  crowns  in  Heaven  ; 

Maybe  thy  Heaven  is  not  so  nigh. 

Long  and  low  the  willow  bendeth  ; 

Sobbeth  its  sin,  shadeth  its  shame  ; 

Sobbeth  and  boweth  ever  the  same. 

Life  and  penance  together  it  endeth. 

True  peace  is  a  harvest  gathered  slow. 

Little  by  little  grace  doth  grow. 

Who  gave  thee  to  look  in  the  Book  of  Fate  ? 

How  canst  thou  know 

If  thou  be  worthy  of  love  or  hate  ? 

Wash  deep  in  the  crimson  river  ; 

Wash  deep  and  long.     A  sinful  act 

Stands  always  an  eternal  fact ; 

A  sin  is  sin  forever. 


GETHSEMANE 


Come,  my  beloved,  come  with  me  ! 

Come  to  Gethsemane  ! 

I  go  to  pray  in  its  solemn  shade, 

And  seek  relief, 

If  so  my  Father  please, 

From  grief 

And  this  fast  gathering  dread, 

Under  the  silent  olive  trees. 


GETHSEMANE.  169 

I  long  to  kneel  once  more 

In  that  dear  wood, 

And  unburden  My  heart  in  its  solitude 

As  I  have  done  before. 

One  hour  remains  that  I  can  call  My  own, 

One  hour  only. 

I  am  lonely, 

Yet  dread  to  be  alone. 

Ah  !  friends,  keep  near  to  Me  ! 

Only  My  Father  in  heaven  can  know 

How  dear  to  Me 

Ye  are  in  this  My  hour  of  woe. 

Stay  here  ;  here  watch  and  pray 

While  I  go  yonder. 

That  tree,  so  old  and  gray, 

So  stout  and  faithful  in  decay, 

Is  a  familiar  friend,  and  under 

Its  loving  branches  I  will  strive 

To  soothe,  or  drive, 

This  weight  of  woe  away. 

A  giant  shape  hangs  overhead, 

A  gross,  misshapen  elf, 

Formed  to  a  hideous  likeness  of  Myself. 

It  fills  My  soul  with  dread. 

It  is  the  forecast  of  that  giant  sorrow 

Which  to-morrow 

Must  needs  be  undergone. 

It  is  sin's  eidolon. 

It  is  made  up  of  shame,  and  pride, 

And  stealthy  fraud,  and  wrathful  homicide, 

And  the  sickening  disgust 

That  follows  the  deed  of  lust, 

And  the  fumes  of  the  drunkard's  breath  ; 

And  every  lie  that  falsehood  hath 

Is  there, — 


GETHSEMANE. 

The  atheist's  dying  glare, 

Foul  thoughts  that  fester  in  the  breast 

Where  they  are  let  to  rest. 

All  these  take  shape, 

And  gaze,  and  gape, 

And  in  one  complex  form  combine, 

As  if  that  form  were  Mine. 

Father  !  the  phantom  names  Me  ; 

It  claims  Me. 

It  wears  the  robe  which  I  must  wear. 

It  bears  the  crown  which  I  must  bear 

To-morrow. 

Father  in  heaven,  be  there, 

To  save  My  spirit  from  despair 

Beneath  this  load  of  sorrow  ! 

Oh,  if  it  may, 

Let  this  cup  pass  away  ! 

Yet,  Father,  Thy  will  be  done. 

n. 

Simon,  James,  John,  awake  ! 

What  !  slumbering  every  one  ! 

Could  ye  not  watch  one  hour  for  My  sake  ? 

Oh,  watch  and  pray  then  for  your  own  ! 

Danger  is  near. 

Temptation  comes,  and  coward  fear. 

Alas  !  so  heavy  are  their  eyelids  grown, 

They  do  not  hear. 

Sleep  on. 

So  must  I  needs  fulfil 

My  Father's  will, 

And  meet  this  woe  alone. 

Sleep  on.     I  am  not  all  deserted, 
Nor  unsupported. 


THE    CROWN  OF"  THORNS.  I/I 

A  strong  arm  holds  Me  now. 

I  feel  a  gentle  hand  upon  My  brow  ; 

And  My  head  is  pressed, 

With  soothing  care,  to  a  loving  breast. 

My  Father's  angel  brings  Me  this  relief  ; 

And  I  feel  at  length 

The  strength 

To  bear  My  load  of  grief. 

Sleep  on.     Sleep  while  ye  may. 

And  yet,  there  soon  will  come  a  day 

That  ye  will  weep 

To  think  of  this  timeless  sleep  ; 

And  how  from  My  side  ye  fled  away 

Like  panic-stricken  sheep, 

Because  of  the  prayers  ye  did  not  say, 

And  the  watch  ye  failed  to  keep. 


THE  CROWN  OF  THORNS. 


One  night,  in  slumber  deep, 

This  vision  came  to  me. 

In  a  dream,  to  me 

In  the  stillness  of  my  sleep 

It  came.     Long  years  have  gone 

Since  that  sad  night, 

And  the  hair  upon  my  head  has  grown 

To  a  silver  white. 

But  still  that  vision  is  the  same  to  me 

As  when  it  came  to  me 

In  the  lone  hours  of  the  night, 

Filling  my  soul  with  shame  and  grief. 

Slow  time  brings  with  it  no  relief. 

I  saw  my  Lord  in  His  throe  ; 


THE   CROWN  OF   THORNS. 

I  saw  Him  hanging  on  the  tree. 

This  I  distinctly  saw,  or  so 

I  seemed  to  see. 

And  all  the  while  He  looked  at  me. 

"  Look  !  look  !  "  He  said  ;  "  see  on  My  head 

The  thorns  which  pierced  My  brain, 

And  which  I  bore  for  thee. 

I  wore  for  thee 

This  crown  of  pain  ; 

And  I  would  do  it  all  again. 

What  wilt  thou  do  for  Me  ? 

Oh  !  have  you  the  eyes  to  see, 

Have  you  the  heart  to  feel, 

What  I  endured  upon  that  hill, 

That  dreadful  hill  of  Calvary  ? 

With  a  reed 

They  smote  My  head 

To  drive  the  thorns  deeper  in. 

They  plucked  the  beard  from  My  chin, 

And  loud  they  cursed  at  Me. 

Can  thought  conceive 

The  fulness  of  my  agony  ? 

Can  any  human  heart  believe 

All  the  inhuman  cruelty, 

Of  what  they  did  to  Me— 

The  nails,  the  spear,  the  thorn, 

The  fear,  the  shame,  the  scorn, 

Which  I  endured  for  thee, 

Unpitied,  friendless,  and  alone, 

Upon  that  fatal  tree  ? 

0  heart  of  stone  ! 

1  bore  it  then, 

And  would  a  thousand  times  again. 
What  wilt  thou  do  for  Me  ?  " 


THE   CROWN  OF   THORNS,  1/ 

II. 

0  Crown  of  thorns  !  thy  crooked  folds  imply 
My  heart's  deep  falsehood,  and  hypocrisy. 
Dear  Lord,  I  know  it  now  ; 

1  know  who  caused  Thy  death, 
Who  wrought  that  wreath, 
And  set  it  on  Thy  brow. 

'T  was  I. 

Traitor  and  spy, 

My  perjured  breath 

Sent  Thee  to  death. 

I  planted  Thy  Cross  and  then  stood  by, 

Joined  to  the  rabble  underneath, 

To  see  Thee  die. 

These  hands  that  plaited  the  crown 

Drove  the  sharp  thorns  deeper  down. 

Each  cruel  spine 

Whose  point  grew  red 

In  Thy  sacred  Head, 

Was  a  sin  of  mine. 

O  God  !  mine  was  the  sin, 

But  the  thorns  that  sank  in, 

And  the  pain  were  Thine. 

'T  was  I  ! 

Therefore,  I  weep,  forever  weep, 

For  that  vision  of  my  sleep  ; 

And  because,  whenever  I  pray, 

That  bleeding  Head  I  see  ; 

And  I  hear  that  sad  voice  say 

Alway,  alway  : 

"  What  wilt  thou  do  for  Me  ?  " 


174  THE  PASSION  FLOWER. 


THE  PASSION-FLOWER. 


Of  all  the  flowers  that  blow, 

There  is  one 

I  dearly  love  to  look  upon 

In  its  time  of  bloom  ;   although 

It  grieves  me,  by  the  piteous  show 

Of  its  scarlet  vest, 

And  the  emblems  of  love,  and  woe 

(The  crown,  the  hammer,  the  nails),  that  grow 

Upon  its  breast. 

For  its  petals  seem  to  bleed  ; 

And  often  my  eyes  are  wet 

With  tears  of  shame,  and  sore  regret, 

To  think  that  a  simple  flower  should  heed 

What  I  forget. 

Ere  ever  the  ruddy  stigmata  grew 

In  the  palms  of  Louise  Latou  ; 

Ere  ever  the  wondering  mountaineers  saw 

On  the  wounded  feet  of  the  Maid  of  Tyrol, 

As  she  lay  entranced  on  her  bed  of  straw, 

The  blood  course  upward,  as  if  the  control 

Of  nature  were  lost,  and  it  knew  no  law 

But  that  of  an  agonized  soul  ; 

Ere  ever  St.  Francis  bore  the  signs 

Which  a  vision  stamped  on  his  hands  and  feet, 

Where  fair  Assisi  holds  her  seat 

On  the  flank  of  the  Apennines  ; 

Before  all  these,  a  flowering  vine 

On  our  American  shore 

Like  emblems  bore. 


THE  PASSION  FLOWER.  1 75 

Sweet  stigmatic  !  great  love  is  thine. 
With  nothing  to  hope,  and  nothing  to  fear, 
Hereafter  or  here, 
Thou  makest  life-long  meditation 
On  the  Saviour's  death  and  passion. 
Yet  Jesus  never  died  for  thee. 
Thou  hast  no  share  in  His  salvation. 
But  oh  !  He  died  for  me  ! 

n. 

It  is  an  American  flower  ; 

It  grows  in  Brazil  and  Peru. 

Great  God  !    was  it  felt  here  too  ? — 

The  shock  of  that  awful  hour 

Which  heard  the  Saviour's  dying  groans  ? 

When  the  sun  grew  dark  at  noon  ? 

When  the  blood  rushed  full  to  the  face  of  the  moon  ? 

When  stars  fell  headlong  from  their  thrones  ? 

When  earth  shook  through  her  vast  extent, 

And  the  primeval  rocks  were  rent  ? 

Say  !  was  the  horror  telegraphed  through 

To  this  our  continent  too  ? 

Say  !  did  the  same  electric  thrill 

Shake  the  heights  and  glades  of  Peru  and  Brazil, 

Breaking  the  news,  sweet  flower,  to  thee  ? 

Say  !  did  it  stamp  thee  so 

With  these  details  of  woe, 

And  blazon  thy  breast  with  such  heraldry  ? 

Say  !  did  the  trembling  earth  reveal  it 

To  the  flowers  that  grew  on  her  breast ; 

And  didst  thou  feel  it, 

Dear  mourner,  more  than  the  rest  ? 

Tell  me,  is  that  the  reason  why 

Thou  bearest  in  every  flowering  bud 

These  birth-marks  of  blood, 

Appealing  from  man  to  the  righteous  sky  ? 


176  THE  BLEEDING    TREE. 

Alas  !  have  I  a  heart  of  steel  ? 

To  me  this  tragedy  is  better  known. 

For  me  this  deed  of  love  was  done. 

Why  am  I  then  so  slow  to  feel  ; 

So  loth  by  the  Cross  to  linger 

In  silence  and  alone  ; 

Whilst  thou  art  rapt  in  meditation, 

Each  filament,  like  a  prophet's  finger, 

Pointing  to  Jesus'  passion  ? 


THE  BLEEDING  TREE. 


Knowest  thou  the  Holy  Rood  ? 

Knowest  thou  that  saving  tree 

From  whose  foot  on  Calvary 

Goes  forth  a  trail  of  precious  blood  ? 

Long  it  braveth  storm,  worm,  flood. 

None  grow  so  fair  to  see. 

Yet  its  branches  always  drip,  drip  ;  God  ! 

The  drops  fall  fast  and  free  ! 

With  blossoms  it  was  overspread. 

Oh  !  it  was  strange  to  see 

Those  blossoms  all  so  crimson  red  ! 

Yet,  here  is  a  stranger  mystery, — 

That  every  bud  and  blossom  bled, 

Dripping,  dripping  overhead, 

Dripping  continually. 

Yea,  for  all  the  drops  so  freely  shed, 

Still  they  fall  fast  and  free  ! 

From  under  the  Rood  a  spring  goes  forth, 
Flowing  fast  and  free  ; 


THE  BLEEDING    TREE.  1/ 

Sending  out  from  their  place  of  birth 

Red  streams  of  charity 

East,  west,  south,  north, 

In  winding  channels  around  the  earth. 

They  stop  not  for  land,  nor  sea. 

0  Blood  of  Christ,  pass  not  my  hearth  ! 
Flow  in  to  me  ! 

Hail,  saving  Wood  !     Hail,  mercy's  shrine  ! 

All  hail,  thou  throbbing  artery 

Of  blood  divine, 

That  sendest  love  so  far  to  me  ! 

Hail  !  eyes  all  pure  and  crystalline, 

That  mingled  tears  with  the  costly  wine 

Poured  out  so  free  ! 

While  light  shall  glisten,  dear  Lord,  in  mine, 

1  '11  make  them  weep  for  Thee  ! 

ii. 

Flow  on  !  cease  not,  O  ruddy  tide, 

Flow  ever  on  ! 

Each  globule  bears  from  the  sacred  Side 

Enough  of  riches  to  atone 

For  all  the  wrong  which  lust  and  pride 

Have  ever  done. 

But  oh  !  the  untold  wealth  of  lives 

Crushed  in  these  human  hives, 

And  to  perdition  gone  ! 

Flow  on  !  flow  on  !  ere  more  be  lost  ! 

What  wealth  but  Thine  can  pay  the  cost 

Of  only  one  ? 

Speed  on  !     Another  stream  as  strong, 
And  full  as  swift,  doth  flow. 
Time  bears  our  helpless  souls  along 
To  endless  weal,  or  woe. 


178  THE  INTERIOR  LIFE. 

Secure  and  slow, 

The  ages  through  their  cycles  glide, 

And  find  no  ebb  to  the  living  tide. 

But,  with  single  lives,  not  so. 

Like  the  brief  spark  of  the  fire-fly, 

We  brighten  to  die  ; 

Gone  with  one  glow. 

Ah  !  Precious  Blood,  flow  in  to  me  ! 

Mine  is  the  greatest  need. 

Sore  wounded  by  the  enemy, 

I  bleed. 

"Where  is  the  power  to  interpose 

Before  my  forfeit  life  shall  close  ? 

What  plea  have  I  to  plead  ? 

Speed  !  speed  ! 

To  thee  alone  the  power  is  given. 

Flow  in,  between  my  soul  and  heaven 

To  intercede. 

Yea,  like  a  deep  and  mighty  sea, 

In  thy  billows  bury  me, 

Till  I  be  pure  indeed. 


THE  INTERIOR  LIFE. 

"  Our  little  sister  has  no  breasts. 
What  shall  our  sister  do, 
In  the  day  when  she  is  spoken  to  ?  " 

— CANTICLES  vii.,  8. 


Our  little  sister  never  rests  ; 
She  goes  too  much  abroad  ; 
So  much  walking  upon  the  road 
Doth  waste  and  weary  her. 


THE  INTERIOR  LIFE.  1 

Come  home,  tired  heart,  to  thy  interior  ! 

Close  up  thy  door  to  the  world  outside  ; 

Shut  down  thy  windows  tight  ; 

Exclude  the  noise  and  the  glaring  light. 

There  's  a  world  within  thee  far  more  wide, 

And  a  sky  more  bright. 

Thou  wilt  find  there 

A  fresher  life  and  a  purer  air. 

Oh  !   't  is  a  holy  and  calm  retreat  ; 

A  solitude  so  still, 

So  solemnly  soft,  and  sweet, 

That  even  the  tread  of  angels'  feet 

Would  break  the  spell. 

There,  in  thy  heart's  far  centre, 

Sits  a  Prince,  upon  a  royal  seat ; 

Enter  !  enter  !  enter  ! 

And  sit  at  His  feet. 

He  will  tell  thee  more  than  books  can  teach, 

Or  human  science  reach. 

O  sister  !   't  is  a  glorious  thing 

To  be  housekeeper  to  so  great  a  King  ! 

In  thine  own  inmost  hall, 

To  have  and  hold, 

Yea,  with  the  fibres  of  thy  life  infold, 

The  Lord  that  holdeth  and  infoldeth  all  ! 

ii. 

O  sweet  interior  life  !   thou  art 

The  Eden  of  the  heart  ; 

Thine  is  the  soul's  true  atmosphere. 

Inflowing  from  the  heights  of  prayer, 

A  pure  inspiring  air 

Makes  feeling  quicker,  breathing  freer  ; 

And  words  are  whispered  into  the  ear 

So  far  surpassing  thought, 

So  full  of  solemn  wisdom  fraught, 


l8o  CHRIST  LOST  AND  FOUND. 

So  soft,  so  low,  so  sweet,  so  near, 

The  wide,  rude  world  can  furnish  naught 

So  precious  and  so  dear. 


CHRIST  LOST  AND  FOUND. 

[FROM  THE  CANTICLES.] 
I. 

0  Daughters  of  Juda,  turn  at  my  prayer  ! 
Pity  me. 

My  Love  is  gone  ;  I  know  not  where. 
Woe  is  me  ! 

1  scorned  my  Love  when  He  kissed  my  brow, 
And  left  Him  under  the  apple  bough. 

He  is  lost  to  me. 

O  Sisters  !  did  you  know  my  Love  ? 

He  was  fair. 

Comely  and  gracious  was  Jesus,  above 

All  compare. 

He  drew  me  to  Him  when  He  spoke. 

He  bound  me  to  Him  with  a  lock 

Of  His  golden  hair. 

The  Watchmen  found  me  on  the  street. 

Woe  is  me  ! 

With  broken  vows,  and  low  deceit, 

They  taunted  me. 

They  tore  the  veil  from  off  my  face, 

Yet  my  heart's  loss,  more  than  disgrace, 

Sore  wounded  me. 


RORATE   CCELL"  l8l 


II. 


I  found  my  Love,  where  my  Love  was  lost  ; 

At  the  trysting  tree  ; 

He  leaned  His  head  where  the  branches  crossed, 

Waiting  for  me. 

Why  I  scorned  Him  I  cannot  tell ; 

But  this  I  know,  I  love  my  Love  well, 

And  my  Love  loves  me. 

My  Love  is  mine  for  all  that  has  passed. 

Under  the  bough 

Of  the  apple-tree,  He  bound  me  fast 

By  a  new  vow. 

I  brought  Him  to  my  Mother's  house, 

There  will  I  bide  His  faithful  spouse, 

As  never  till  now. 


"RORATE  CCELI." 

ISAI.  v.,  8. 


"  O  Heavens  !  in  all  your  wide  domain 

Can  there  no  dew  be  found  ? 

O  clouds  !  have  ye  no  rain 

To  fall  upon  the  ground, 

And  save  the  grain  ? 

Look  down  on  our  distress  ; 

Look  all  around  ; 

Witness  this  barrenness  ; 

See  how  the  parched  and  thirsty  earth 

Is  cursed  with  dearth, 

And  to  her  centre  drying  ! 


1 82  "  Jf ORATE   CCELI," 

Can  tender  seed  find  birth 

When  the  old  growths  are  dead,  or  dying  ? 

Only  fear  and  famine  thrive.     Like  shadows 

We  hide  from  the  cloudless  sky, 

Seeing  no  sign  in  its  burning  eye 

Of  tears  for  fields  or  meadows. 

O  send  down  rain  ! 

Revive  the  barren  ground  again  ! 

Give  it  the  power  of  birth, 

That  salvation  may  come  forth 

With  the  new-born  grain  !  " 

'T  is  thus,  with  gesture  and  impatient  mouth, 

The  farmers  cry 

To  earth  and  sky, 

In  the  time  of  drouth. 

O  Christ !  was  ever  earth  more  sterile, 

Was  ever  drouth  more  dry, 

Was  ever  less  moisture  in  the  sky, 

Ever  more  souls  in  peril, 

Than  when  thou  layest  in  the  gloom 

Of  Mary's  womb, 

And  the  Church,  like  a  starved  earth, 

Lay  drooping 

All  that  long  Advent,  faintly  hoping 

For  a  Saviour's  birth  ? 

Truth  was  a  folded  book,  unread  ; 

Faith  slept  above  the  darkened  letters  ; 

God's  love,  in  fetters, 

Could  bring  to  dying  hope  no  aid  ; 

What  light  the  ancient  prophecies  supplied 

Blind  ignorance  denied. 

Only  this  feeble  prayer, 

From  a  faithful  few  in  Hebrew  land, 

Rose,  like  a  wail  from  the  dry  sand, 

Into  the  heedless  air. 


tlRORATE    CCELI."  183 

"Rorate  Cceli,  Heaven  speed  ! 
A  world  travails  in  pain. 
Pour  down  the  blessed  rain 
On  Abram's  seed  ! 
Combine,  combine, 
O  human  and  divine, 
And  bring  a  Saviour  forth, 
A  child  of  Heaven  and  earth, 
And  save  the  grain  !  " 

ii. 

"  Rorate  Coeli  !  "  Heaven  bedew 

My  heart  so  hardened  and  so  dry  ; 

So  shut  to  the  good  and  true, 

So  open  to  each  passer  by. 

"  Rorate  Ccdi  !  "  give  me  rain  ! 

Water  my  soul  with  grace  ! 

O  bring  me  face  to  face 

With  my  deserted  love  again  ! 

Bring  back  the  joy  of  early  years, 

A  joy  that  grew  'mid  hopes  and  fears, 

With  all  those  quick  transitions 

To  sweeter  joy  from  desolations  ! 

Bring  back  the  noble,  high  ambitions  ; 

Bring  back  the  inspirations 

Which  roused  my  soul  in  early  days, 

When  first  I  learned  to  love  my  Lord  ; 

When  to  my  centre  I  was  stirred 

By  the  music  of  His  praise  ; 

When  it  needed  but  a  word, 

A  simple  echo  of  His  voice 

From  the  altar  heard, 

To  move  me  ; 

And  all  I  asked  of  bliss 

Was  this, — 

That  Whom  I  loved  would  love  me  ! 


1 84  PALM-SUNDAY. 

"  Rorate  Cceli  !  "  come,  sweet  Spirit, 

Come  to  thy  home  again  ; 

Descend  like  a  summer  rain  ; 

Come  to  thy  manor  and  inherit ; 

With  the  moisture  of  thy  breath  bedew  it, 

And  so  renew  it, 

That  golden  grain  may  grow 

Where  all  is  bare  and  desert  now  ! 


PALM-SUNDAY. 


Say  !  shall  I  see  Him  ? 
Shall  I  see  my  Lord  one  day, 
When  this  veil  is  drawn  away  ? 
Will  the  vision  really  be — Him  ; 
Jesus  that  came  from  Galilee, 
Riding  to  death  in  jubilee  ? 

Say  !  shall  I  hear  Him  ; 

Hear  Him  speaking  low  and  sweet, 

As  friends  speak  when  friends  meet  ? 

Shall  I  be  so  very  near  Him 

That  His  language  would  be  clear 

If  only  whispered  to  my  ear  ? 

Say  !  shall  I  know  Him  ? 

Shall  I  have  the  golden  key 

Unlocking  every  mystery 

Of  love  belonging  to  Him  ? 

Find  in  my  own  some  counterpart 

To  the  love  of  that  great  Heart  ? 


THE   SONG  OF  SONGS.  1 8$ 

II. 

Let  me  follow  now  ! 

Master  !  here  I  am. 

Behold  my  palm, 

Behold  my  waving  bough  ! 

Jesus,  Thou  art  dear  to  me. 

Pass  not  unheeding  near  to  me. 

Shall  I  serve  Thee  where  I  am  ? 

Ah  !  He  is  gone  ; 

And  I  stand  alone 

With  my  waving  bough  of  palm. 

Saviour  !  I  would  serve  Thee  true. 

Is  there  aught  that  I  can  do  ? 

I  would  not  serve  for  hire. 

I  make  no  bargain,  Lord. 

Speak  but  the  word  ; 

Leaps  my  soul  to  Thy  desire. 

Give  Thy  love,  and  take  my  own — 

I  shall  be  rich  with  love  alone. 


THE  SONG   OF  SONGS. 

"•Let  him  kiss  me  with  the  kisses  of  his  mouth." 

— CANTICLES  i.,  a. 


Who  speaks  ? 

The  words  are  full  of  fire. 

Some  soul  all  wrought  to  strong  desire 

The  silence  breaks. 

Ah  !  let  no  spirit  coarse  and  vain, 

With  thought  profane 


1 86  7 'HE   SONG   OF  SONGS. 

Of  earthly  joy  and  sensual  love, 
Interpret  sounds  that  thrill  with  prayer, 
Pure  sighs  that  rise  to  Heaven  above, 
And  were  inspired  there. 

Who  speaks  ? 

It  is  Christ's  bride  ;  a  maid, 

In  her  nuptial  robe  arrayed, 

With  maiden  blushes  on  her  cheeks  ; 

A  maid,  but  wearing  her  nuptial  ring  ; 

A  royal  bride 

That  stands  beside 

Her  Lord  ;  and  He  the  Son  of  a  King, 

Holding  her  hand  in  His. 

God  !  is  there  happiness  like  this, — 

The  joy  of  a  soul  that  gives  Thee  all, 

Without  condition,  question  of  recall, 

And  only  asks  for  a  kiss  ? 

n. 

Once  I  gave  my  soul  away  ; 

Took  no  thought  for  liberty. 

Then  and  there,  in  simple  fee, 

All  to  Christ  did  I  convey. 

Head,  heart,  home,  hope, — 

All  I  freely  rendered  up 

On  my  wedding-day. 

Happy  was  I  that  all  was  gone  ; 

Happy  and  rich  in  my  poverty 

To  feel  that  nothing  was  left  to  me 

That  I  could  call  my  own, 

Not  even  my  soul. 

That  too  I  deeded  over 

In  absolute  fee  to  my  Lord  and  Lover. 

Christ  had  the  whole. 


FEELING  IN  DEVOTION.  1 87 

I  was  love's  prodigal. 

"  Since  love  is  mine,"  I  said, 

"  I  am  well  paid  ; 

For  love  pays  all." 

When  glad,  to  sing  its  joy  love  longs. 
My  joy  took  shape  in  melody  and  measure. 
A  song  was  born  of  my  pleasure, 
And  I  called  it  "  The  song  of  songs." 
It  was  only  a  prayer  for  a  kiss  ; 
But,  as  I  meant  it,  it  seemed  to  me 
That  the  compass  of  time  and  eternity 
Was  comprehended  all  in  this. 

Woe  's  me  !  for  the  darkened  day 
When  that  prayer  shall  not  prevail  ; 
When  that  music  in  my  soul  shall  fail  ; 
When  that  song  shall  die  away  ! 


FEELING  IN   DEVOTION. 


Betimes,  when  Christian  men  are  kneeling, 
Their  prayers  are  mingled  so  with  tears 
'T  would  seem  such  show  of  feeling 
Must  needs  be  born  of  holy  love  ; 
That  only  a  rain  from  the  sky  above 
Could  fill  the  eyes  to  overflow 
So  plentifully.     Yet  not  so  ; 
For  I  tell  thee  frank  and  truly, 
Such  weepers  are  often  within 
Unhallowed,  and  tainted  with  sin  ; 
And  their  lives  grow  never  more  holy. 
Ah  !  there  are  some  that  kneel 
Who  pray  not,  for  all  their  kneeling  ; 


1 88  FEELING  IN  DEVOTION. 

And  there  are  those  that  feel 

Who  love  not,  for  all  their  feeling. 

There  is  in  nature  a  tenderness 

That  is  not  godly  piety  ; 

And  there  is  an  inborn  gentleness 

That  is  not  charity  ; 

A  certain  shadow  of  grace  may  stay, 

For  many  a  day, 

Where  grace  has  no  control  ; 

And  hence 

A  taste  of  sweetness  may  be  in  the  sense 

Which  is  not  in  the  undersoul. 

Trust  not  to  mere  emotion. 

It  will  deceive  thee, 

And  leave  thee 

As  far  as  ever  from  devotion. 

All  thou  canst  do, 

All  that  quick  sense  can  move  thee  to, 

Which  does  not  go  to  mend  thy  living, 

Is  but  a  dream  of  self-deceiving. 

Thy  life  will  be  a  mimic  trance, 

And  thou  a  saint  of  pure  romance. 

But  this  is  genuine  devotion  : 
A  loving,  true,  and  ready  will  ; 
An  earnest  resolution 
God's  pleasure  to  fulfil 
In  all  things,  and  alway  ; 
To  do  the  right,  and  shun  the  ill  ; 
Not  only  worship,  praise,  and  pray, 
But  to  be  holy,  and  obey. 

ii. 

What  though  thy  soul  be  dry, 
Barren  and  chill, 


FEELING  IN  DEVOTION.  189 

If  God  be  nigh  ? 

Stay  on  the  upper  hill, 

And  build  a  tabernacle  there 

For  a  higher,  holier  prayer 

That  sense  can  feel. 

I  know  an  Alpine  mountain  cone. 

In  the  Valais  it  holds  its  seat, 

With  a  glacier  to  muffle  its  feet. 

Thence  creeping  forth,  the  river  Rhone 

Descends,  with  many  a  bound, 

To  thaw  his  blood  on  warmer  ground. 

But  look  up  high  ! 

Higher,  still  higher  raise  thine  eye 

To  the  very  point  of  that  icy  spire 

Where,  sharpened  to  one  intense  desire 

To  pierce  the  sky, 

Stands  fixed  in  holy  prayer  the  hill. 

So  lift  thy  chastened  will 

To  the  high  overthrone, 

Forgetful  of  the  sensual  Rhone, 

Craving  thy  heat  from  the  sun  alone. 

Through  chill  or  cheer, 

There  wait 

At  Heaven's  gate 

Until  thy  sun  appear  ; 

Naught  asking,  all  thy  vigil  through, 

Save  to  be  near, 

Save  to  be  true. 

And,  if  thy  sun  appear  not,  grieve  not, 

Fear  not,  doubt  not  ;  and  believe  not 

That  God  in  anger  hides  His  face. 

What  though  the  sense  receive  not, 

If  only  the  soul  finds  grace  ! 


190  ESCAPEMENT. 


ESCAPEMENT. 


Tick  !  tick  !  tick  ! 

0  clock  !   thou  art  too  quick  ; 
With  iron  finger  chasing  time, 

And  measuring  out  so  sharp  for  me, 

In  rhythmic  beats  and  clicking  rhyme, 

My  onward  march  to  destiny. 

Belay  !  stop  !  stay  !  rest  ! 

Art  thou  so  pressed  ? 

O,  scrupulous  painstaker, 

Art  thou  so  conscientious  in  thy  line  ? 

Art  so  accountable  unto  thy  maker, 

As  I  to  mine  ? 

ii. 

Oh  !  oh  !  oh  ! 

Tedious  cold  hour-hand,why  creepest  so  ? 

1  cannot  bear  that  rigid  finger 
Crawling  so  stealthily  around, 

As  void  of  seeming  motion  as  of  sound. 

Blind  tentacle,  why  dost  thou  linger  ? 

What  art  thou  feeling  for,  and  hast  not  found  ? 

"  I  am  feeling  for  a  hollow  in  the  ground  ; 

I  am  feeling  for  the  breast  of  a  mound, 

A  motionless,  unpanting  breast, 

Where  a  hot  heart  that  pants  too  fast, 

Relieved  at  last, 

May  lull  itself  to  rest 

In  the  cool  clay  or  sand. 

Master  !  the  hour  of  thy  repose 

Should  bring  me  rest,  and  so  forever  close 

The  weary  service  of  an  hour-hand." 


THE   SAME   OLD    TERMS. 

III. 

Well  !  well  !  well ! 
Who  can  tell 

What  is  fast  or  what  is  slow  ? 
Oft  the  hours  seem  to  leap  ; 
Often  too  with  snail-like  creep 
The  lagging  minutes  go. 
Only  earnest  bosoms  know 
How  to  measure  time. 
When  pulses  beat  by  healthy  rule, 
When  duty  fills  the  hours  full, 
Then  life  is  steadfast  and  sublime. 


THE  SAME  OLD  TERMS. 

Lord,  here  before  Thy  face, 

Bold  beggar,  asking  grace, 
I  knock  at  Thy  pavilion  door, 

As  hungry  as  before. 

Again  we  meet  to-day, 

As  we  met  yesterday, 
Reaching  familiar  arms  to  arms 

Upon  the  same  old  terms. 

I  bring  my  sins  and  woes, 
Weak  faith,  forgotten  vows, 

And  wearily  to  Thee  I  plead 
Once  more  the  self-same  need. 

Thou  bringest  life  and  health, 

Stores  of  celestial  wealth. 
Wilt  interchange,  dear  Lord,  such  ware 

For  a  poor  sinner's  prayer  ? 


OVERBOARD,    ALL. 

Turn  not  Thy  face  away 

From  the  old  tale  to-day. 
Nay  !  once  for  all  make  all  things  new, 

To  show  what  grace  can  do. 


OVERBOARD,  ALL. 


On  an  overloaded  bark  I  ride. 
How  shall  I  ever  make  the  shore  ? 
Throw  the  cargo  over  the  side  ! 
In  a  sea  like  this,  / 
So  much  cargo  is  foolishness. 
Lighten  the  ship  !  More  !  More  ! 

On  an  overloaded  bark  I  ride. 

I  am  the  wild  wind's  sport. 

The  waves  that  climb  the  vessel's  side 

Have  swept  my  mates  into  the  sea. 

Only  my  Pilot  is  left  to  me 

To  show  me  into  port. 

On  an  overloaded  bark  I  ride, 
Heavily  plunging  in  the  sea. 
That  swash  has  swept  away  my  Guide. 
Only  the  ship  now  ;  and  high  and  far 
One  hopeful  light,  the  northern  star, 
Looks  down  on  my  misery. 

On  an  overloaded  bark  I  ride, 

And  still  encumbered.     Strip  !  then,  strip  ! 

Keep  naught  for  comfort,  naught  for  pride, 


OVERBOARD,    ALL.  1 93 

Cast  all  away  !  the  whole  !  the  whole  ! 
Stand  ready  to  swim,  O  naked  soul, 
Or  sink  with  the  sinking  ship  ! 

'T  is  over  now.     I  am  alone. 
Only  the  tempest  is  left  to  me. 
Cargo,  crew,  Pilot,  ship, — all  gone. 
Afloat  on  the  deep  in  a  starless  night, — 
O  God  !  Can  I  make  myself  more  light, 
More  helplessly  hang  on  Thee  ! 

n. 

On  a  desolate  shore  of  the  sea  I  stand, 
Alone  with  the  sky,  and  the  sand,  and  the  sea, 
Like  Crusoe  on  his  desert  island  ; 
And  little  by  little  the  waves  bring  back 
All  that  I  lost,  all  that  I  lack  ; 
All  comes  floating  back  to  me. 

Box,  and  barrel,  and  bundle,  and  bale, 
Locker,  plate,  clothing,  and  all  my  gear, 
Block,  and  spar,  and  cordage,  and  sail, 
Drift  through  the  breakers  to  the  shore, — 
Safe  all,  and  stauncher  than  before. 
What  wealth  of  treasure  trove  is  here  ! 

What  boat  is  this  so  like  to  mine  ? 
It  brings  my  crew  from  the  foam  of  the  sea, 
All  dripping  with  crystals  from  the  brine. 
They  leap  from  the  breakers  to  the  strand, 
And  clasp  me  eagerly  by  the  hand. 
Welcome,  dear  comrades,  home  to  me  ! 

What  's  this  in  the  offing  that  meets  my  eye, 
So  safely  anchored,  riding  a-lee  ? 
'T  is  my  wreck,  with  her  tall  masts  looming  high, 
And  her  signal  flying  at  the  peak. 


194  FAR  AND  NEAR. 

Is  that  my  Pilot  stands  on  the  deck  ? 
Great  God  of  love  !  He  signals  me. 

Now  welcome  back,  my  trusty  Guide  ! 
Dark  was  the  wave  with  Thee  away. 
Perhaps  Thou  wert  always  at  my  side. 
Maybe  some  part  of  my  wreck  was  a  dream, 
Though  solemnly  real  the  whole  did  seem 
To  a  spirit  dizzy  with  dismay. 

God  !  teach  me  the  true  economy. 
To  keep  is  not  the  way  to  save  ; 
Wealth  lies  in  the  deepest  poverty  ; 
Christ's  millionaires  count  not  the  cost ; 
The  storm  once  past,  they  shall  have  most 
Who  cast  their  all  into  the  wave. 


FAR  AND  NEAR. 


Say,  which  is  the  nearest,  the  years,  as  they  roll, 

Or  the  hand  that  driveth  history  ; 

The  show  of  facts,  or  law  in  mystery  ; 

The  sky  of  the  sight,  or  the  sky  of  the  soul  ; 

The  changeful  drapery  of  the  real  ; 

Or  the  deep,  immutable  ideal  ? 

Make  it  as  pleaseth  thee, 
As  sense  or  deeper  reason  seizeth  thee. 
Lord  of  the  near,  and  of  the  far, 
Both  worlds  thy  paint  and  gilding  bear. 
Hearts  have  a  ready  power  and  skill 
To  draw  their  landscapes  out  at  will, 


FAR  AND  NEAR.  195 

Give  size  and  presence  to  their  treasures, 

Light  and  color  to  their  pleasures. 

Use  then  thy  art  ; 

Measure  all  distance  by  thy  heart. 

And  yet,  for  all,  be  there  illusion, 

Time  will  shatter  it, 

Death  will  scatter  it  ; 

Cometh  all  falsehood  to  confusion. 

Say,  which  is  nearest,  what  thou  hearest, 

Or  what  thou  canst  not  hear  ? 

There  are  words  that  come  not  in  at  the  ear, 

But  are  inborn.     These  are  the  nearest. 

What  the  ear  hears  is  outside  noise  ; 

But  far  below  lies  the  undertone. 

It  speaks  to  the  naked  soul  alone, 

And  is  eloquent  voice. 

Hark  to  what  the  ground  tone  saith  ! 

It  knoweth  no  time,  reacheth  no  term, 

Forever  resteth  fast  and  firm, 

Dies  not  away  in  the  silence  of  death, 

But  riseth  then  to  a  cry, 

An  accent,  language,  all  inspiring  breath, 

Deeper  than  hell,  than  heaven  more  high. 

Oh  !  wilt  thou  hear  it  ? 

Lay  not  thine  ear  to  the  ground  ; 

List  not  for  some  far-coming  sound  ; 

Thou  'rt  very  near  it. 

When  all  this  outside  noise  is  still, 

God  speaks  loud  to  the  silent  will. 

ii. 

There  is  no  far  ;  there  is  no  near  ; 
There  is  no  hence  ;  there  is  no  here  ; 
There  is  no  day  ;  there  is  no  night  ; 


196         REMEMBRANCE   OF   THE  DEAD. 

There  is  neither  great  nor  small 

In  presence  of  the  infinite  All. 

Distance  is  but  imperfect  sight. 

Day  is  blank  midnight  to  the  blind  ; 

So,  to  the  sin-darkened  mind, 

Which  lacks  the  higher  sense  of  seeing, 

Heaven  shows  no  light,  God  is  dim  being. 

Ah  !  could  we  look  at  things  aright, 

Fit  nobler  lenses  to  our  sight, 

Rise  to  a  higher  photosphere 

Than  glimmers  on  our  senses  here, 

The  near  would  change  places  with  the  far, 

The  things  that  seem  with  things  that  are  ; 

The  earth  would  sink  like  a  dream  of  the  night, 

The  sky  would  fold  away  like  a  scroll ; 

And  the  unveiled  vision  of  the  soul, 

Wide  open  to  the  all-fair,  all-bright, 

Like  God's  own  eye  would  scan  the  whole, 

And  to  the  foreground  bring  the  infinite. 


REMEMBRANCE   OF  THE  DEAD. 


They  are  dead.     They  are  not  here. 

They  are  gone,  but  not  far. 

We  know  not  where  they  are, 

Though  they  be  near. 

We  cannot  hear  their  speech, 

Their  moaning  cannot  reach 

The  keenest  ear. 

And  yet  we  hold  a  sad  belief 

(A  balance  made  of  hope  and  fear, 

Of  loss  computed  in  with  gain, 


REMEMBRANCE   OF   THE  DEAD.          1 97 

Of  comfort  comprehending  grief) 

That  souls,  to  heaven, and  us  most  dear, 

Abide  in  pain. 

Oh  !  can  we  nothing  spare 

For  their  relief, 

To  make  their  penance  light  or  brief  ? 

Has  love  no  tear  ?     Has  faith  no  prayer  ? 

Though  they  be  dead,  does  death  hold  all  ? 

Is  nothing  left  unburied  ? 

When  to  the  graveyard  they  were  hurried, 

Did  the  dull  earth  fall 

On  all  that  in  their  lives  we  knew 

Of  beautiful  and  true, 

Leaving  love's  duty  paid 

By  the  sexton's  spade, 

With  nothing  more  to  do  ? 

And  if  death  find  some  taint  of  sin 

In  souls  so  true  (as  needs  it  must), 

Some  debt  with  Justice  to  adjust, 

Before  their  Heaven  can  begin, 

Is  penance  done  by  mold  and  rust  ? 

Is  there  a  filtering  power  in  dust 

To  make  the  spirit  clean  ? 

Is  there  a  friendship  in  cold  clay  ? 

Ah,  no  !     But  earnest  love  can  pay 

Some  portion  of  a  lover's  debt, 

And  we,  who  tread  the  tearful  Valley  yet, 

Can  give  our  tears,  and  pray. 

II. 

How  cruel  to  forget  the  dead  ! 
Were  there  no  ties  but  such  as  bind 
Each  creature  to  its  kind, 
Our  tribute  should  be  paid. 


198  DOM  IN  US  REGIT  ME. 

But  Christians  ! — with  one  destiny, 
Redeemed  on  the  same  Calvary, 
Sealed  to  one  vast  eternity, 
And  when  old  loves  and  friendships  plead- 
To  forget  them  in  their  need 
Is  heartless  cruelty. 
Hark  !  from  the  purifying  flames 
They  call  us  in  their  agony  ; 
They  call  us  by  our  names, 
By  every  tender  memory 
They  urge  their  claims 
Upon  our  charity, 
And  this  is  their  woful  litany  : 
"  O  saltern  vos,  amid  met, 
Miseremini" 


DOMINUS  REGIT  ME. 


The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd.     What  want  have  I  ? 

He  leadeth  me  ; 

He  feedeth  me  ; 

I  graze  where  the  green  meadows  lie. 

I  follow  the  crook 

Of  my  gentle  Guide 

To  the  margin  of  the  brook, 

Where  the  crystal  waters  glide  ; 

And  tranquilly  upon  its  rqossy  brink 

I  drink 

Sweet  draughts  from  the  flowing  tide. 

When  cometh  the  noon-day  heat, 

He  leadeth  His  sheep  to  a  cool  retreat, 

Where  drooping  willows  wet  their  feet 

At  the  water  side. 

And  they  sleep  ;  and  their  sleep  is  sweet. 


DOMINUS  REGIT  ME.  1 99 

Betimes  they  hide  beneath  a  rock, 
Where  shelter  is  supplied,  far  and  wide, 
By  the  shadow  of  its  mighty  side, 
To  all  the  flock. 

0  Lord,  Thy  rule  is  sweet ; 
Here  might  and  mercy  meet, 
And  love  is  law. 

Here  faithful  at  Thy  feet, 
Conscious  of  awe, 
But  more  by  love  controlled, 
Lead  me  thus  ever  by  Thy  rod, 
My  Shepherd,  and  my  God, 
And  keep  me  ever  in  Thy  fold. 

n. 

There  's  a  shadow  on  the  valley  where  I  feed. 
There  's  a  chill  upon  the  path  wherein  I  tread. 

1  know  what  sense  so  apprehendeth, 
And  where  this  lower  living  endeth. 
I  know  why  oft,  with  sudden  start, 
Back  to  my  heart 

The  blood  doth  rally  ; 

And  what  it  is  that  cramps  my  breath. 

A  shadow  overcasts  the  valley  ; 

And  the  shadow  is  that  of  death. 

Yet  wherefore  should  I  feed  in  fear  ? 

My  Shepherd  is  still  near. 

I  see  Him  signal  from  the  green  hill-side, 

My  steps  to  guide 

Away  from  the  forbidden  bounds 

Back  to  the  slopes,  the  lawns,  the  springs, 

And  the  permitted  pasturings 

Of  my  allotted  grounds. 

Yea,  Lord,  what  though 


200  THE    COMMUNICANT. 

I  see  death's  shadow  deeper  grow, 
As  chilled  I  wander  to  and  fro 
Along  the  meadow  ; 
Thy  staff  and  crook  shall  be  my  stay 
Till  comes  the  dawn  of  the  new  Day 
To  chase  this  shadow. 


THE  COMMUNICANT. 


Is  any  thing  brighter  than  light  ? 

Can  any  thing  be  half  so  bright  ? 

Yea,  yea  ; 

I  dare  presume, 

With  Holy  Chrysostom, 

To  say  it,  and  do  say  : 

More  brilliant  far  the  mouth  whose  food 

Is  Angels'  bread  ; 

Richer  the  tongue  which  is  ruby  red 

With  a  Saviour's  blood. 

Each  guest  from  the  sacrificial  feast  doth  part 

More  radiant  than  the  ray 

Which  the  sun,  in  the  burning  heat  of  mid-day, 

Speeds  from  his  throbbing  heart. 

Can  any  thing  impure  abide 

In  such  a  furnace  tried  ? 

Oh,  say  ! 

Can  a  soul  be  pressed  to  that  mighty  Side, 

And  not  come  in  a  flame  away  ? 

Ah  !  while  I  hang  upon  that  Breast, 
Angels  from  Heaven  in  surprise 
Their  steps  arrest, 
And  hide  their  eyes. 


THE   COMMUNICANT.  2OI 

Wings  suddenly  fold  in  the  air. 
For  the  Messenger  Spirits  would  not  presume 
At  such  a  time,  by  the  wave  of  a  plume, 
To  tempt  my  soul  from  prayer. 

ii. 

Say  !  tell  me,  is  it  long 

Since  the  Blood  of  Christ  was  on  my  tongue  ? 

Oh  !  say, 

Has  the  fragrance  all  passed  from  my  breath  away  ? 

Am  I  yet  free,  quite  free  again, 

To  mingle  among  men  ? 

Can  I  ever  be  as  I  was  before, — 

So  thoughtless,  reckless,  careless, 

So  godless,  lifeless,  prayerless  ? 

Shall  I  be  fickle  forevermore  ? 

Will  not  the  blessing  of  this  Sacrament, 

So  lately  tasted, 

Stay  in  my  soul  unwasted 

Until  my  life  itself  is  spent  ? 

Or,  alas  !  will  this  too  take  flight, 

Like  the  joy  of  other  feasts  ? — 

Home  speed  the  wearied  guests. 

Out  goes  the  light. 

Of  all  the  creatures  Thou  hast  made, 
O  God,  all  hunger  for  their  bread. 
And  this  is  mine. 

When  wilt  Thou  spread  again  Thy  board, 
And  feed  to  me  this  life  divine, 
My  life  transforming  into  Thine  ? 
Oh  !  come  before  I  faint,  dear  Lord, 
For  want  of  bread  and  wine  I 


"REVELATIONS   OF   DIVINE 
LOVE." 

MEDITATIONS 

SELECTED,    ADAPTED,    AND     VERSIFIED     FROM     THE 
ORIGINAL    OF 

MOTHER  JULIANA, 

AN  ENGLISH    RECLUSE   OF   THE    I4TH   CENTURY. 


203 


REVELATIONS  OF  DIVINE  LOVE. 

[FROM  MOTHER  JULIANA.] 


THE  LITTLENESS  OF  CREATION. 


I  said  :  What  is  this  thing  I  see, 

Which  my  good  Master  showeth  me  ? 

In  the  palm  of  my  hand  it  lies, 

A  little  ball 

So  light  and  small, 

A  tiny  hazel-nut  would  fill  its  place. 

Lord  !  do  me  a  further  grace, 

And  read  this  mystery  to  me. 

What  can  it  be  ? 

And  my  good  Lord  said  : 

"  'T  is  all  was  ever  made." 

Now  well  I  know  this  world  is  great, 
A  thing  of  mighty  bulk  and  weight, 
By  far  more  grand 

Than  a  little  nut  on  the  palm  of  my  hand. 
Far  it  extendeth  ; 

God  only  knows  where  nature  endeth, 
And  the  curtains  of  creation  close. 
But  this  is  the  reason  why 
It  showed  so  little  to  my  eye  ; 
In  the  presence  of  God  it  lay, 
205 


2O6  SEEKING  AND  BEHOLDING. 

And  my  soul  was  in  a  mood  that  day 

To  lose  sight 

Of  a  magnitude  so  slight. 

n. 

Now  this  little  thing  that  was  made,  methought 

It  should  have  fallen  to  naught, 

So  little  it  seemed  to  the  eye 

When  God  was  by. 

I  marvelled  it  should  last  at  all. 

I  wondered  whether 

It  had  enough  to  hold  together, 

It  seemed  so  very  small. 

And  it  was  answered  to  my  mind  ; 

Yea,  it  lasteth,  and  ever  shall, 

For  God  loveth  it  well. 

This  then  I  find  : 

In  God  is  neither  small  nor  great. 

Naught  measures  by  its  magnitude, 

Naught  weigheth  by  its  weight. 

But  He  is  good  ; 

And  all  that  love  did  once  create 

Love  still  must  needs  include. 

He  that  made  all  things  loseth  naught 

By  any  change  or  afterthought. 

Faileth  no  link  in  Love's  long  chain. 

Bideth  all  being  that  once  hath  been. 


SEEKING  AND  BEHOLDING. 


One  thing  it  is  to  seek  God  wistfully, 

Another  to  behold  Him  blissfully  ; 

But  patiently  to  seek,  or  blessedly  to  see, 


SEEKING  AND  BEHOLDING.  2O/ 

Methinks  are  workings  of  one  quality, 
And  profiteth  the  soul  all  one, 
So  His  holy  will  be  done. 

We  grope  in  darkness  where  there  is  no  seeing. 

But  whom  we  seek  He  seeth  clearly, 

And  that  we  crave  His  sight  so  dearly 

Much  pleaseth  the  Overlord,  wise  Being, 

Who  hideth  Himself  a  little  space, 

Leaving  us  lost  and  lonely, 

And  full  of  sorrow,  only 

To  give  some  other  time  a  sweeter  grace. 

Cometh  the  time  erelong  in  any  case 

(God  speed  the  day) 

When  the  soul,  more  loving  for  long  delay, 

More  hungry  for  long  fasting, 

Shall  open  her  eyes 

With  ever  marvelling  surprise 

To  see  His  blissful  face  for  everlasting. 

n. 

In  seeking  for  a  closer  view 

Of  God,  it  is  His  will  and  pleasure 

That  by  three  holy  rules  we  measure 

The  working  of  our  hearts  thereto. 

First,  we  must  seek  Him  verily, 

And  busily,  yet  cheerfully,  yea  merrily, 

Casting  aside  all  baleful  melancholy, 

All  childish  show  of  rueful  face, 

And  yield  our  wayward  spirits  wholly 

To  every  motion  of  His  grace, 

With  full  entire  devotion. 

And  secondly,  that  steadfast,  in  good  cheer, 

We  do  abide  His  time,  and  wait, 


208  JESUS  OUR  HEAVEN. 

Like  patient  beggars,  at  the  gate, 

Until  it  please  Him  to  appear. 

And  last,  that  mightily  we  trust  in  Him, 

And  ever  trustfully  we  rest  in  Him, 

And  cling  to  Him  with  faith  unfailing, 

That,  by  His  grace, 

The  time  shall  come  of  His  unveiling 

When  we  shall  see  His  face. 

For  longeth  earnestly  our  Heavenly  Friend 

To  bring  us  to  this  blissful  sight, 

And  change  our  gloom  to  light. 

He  worketh  steadily  to  this  one  end, 

For  His  love  is  ever  gracious, 

Familiar,  tender,  pressing,  precious, 

And  full  of  royal  courtesy. 

Forever  blessed  mote  He  be  ! 


JESUS  OUR  HEAVEN. 


Long  I  lay  sick  and  sad, 

And,  by  the  feeling  of  the  pains  I  had, 

I  thought  that  I  should  die. 

Long  I  lay,  weary  and  lonely, 

Though  whiles  dear  friends  were  by. 

My  sight  began  to  fail  ;  and  only 

For  the  Cross  that  hung  upon  the  wall, 

And  a  light  that  shone 

(I  wist  not  how) 

On  the  bleeding  Brow, 

Methought  that  all  was  gone 

Of  life  and  light, 

And  in  a  sea  of  starless  night 

My  day  was  drowned. 


JESUS  OUR  HEAVEN.  2C>g 

Thus  lying, 

And,  as  to  my  seeming,  dying, 

Above,  beneath,  and  all  around 

Began  a  whispering  and  laughter  in  the  air, 

In  mockery,  as  if  damned  fiends, 

By  the  malice  of  such  means, 

Would  drive  me  to  despair. 

Betimes  I  would  have  turned  my  head 

To  look  into  the  gloom, 

But  that  my  soul  was  overcome 

By  dread, 

And  sore  misgiving  of  these  goblin  tricks  ; 

And  in  my  terror  to  myself  I  said  : 

They  will  seize  my  soul  for  treason 

Should  my  eyes  stir  from  the  Crucifix. 

Then  something  in  my  reason, 

Some  voice  of  hope  breathing  through  faith, 

Or  some  diviner  breath, 

"  Look  up,"  it  said,  "  look  up,  thou  craven  ! 
Here  's  nothing  to  alarm  thee  ; 
Nothing  is  there  can  harm  thee 
Betwixt  the  Cross  and  Heaven." 

n. 

Now,  when  this  heavenly  voice 

Bade  me  look  up,  no  choice 

Had  I  but  simply  to  obey, 

Or  courteous  answer  must  be  given. 

And  I  said  :  "  Nay, 

I  may  not,  for  Thou  art  my  Heaven." 

My  meaning  was,  so  might  it  please  my  Lord, 

I  would  not  ;  for  that  I  preferred 

Gladly  till  doomsday  to  remain 

In  all  my  pain 

Than  even  to  enter  Paradise 


2IO  BENEDICITE  DO  MINE. 

In  any  other  wise 

Than  by  His  own  dear  Cross. 

Yet  well  I  wot  who  bound  me  thus 

He  could  unbind  me  too. 

A  comfort  't  is  that  then  and  there 

I  spoke  this  word  on  my  bed  of  pain. 

And  so,  I  trow, 

Stands  my  heart  now  ; 

No  other  Heaven  but  Christ  for  me  ! 

For  time  and  for  eternity 

My  pledge  is  given  : 

Jesus  alone  shall  be  my  Heaven  ! 


BENEDICITE  DOMINE. 


In  sorrow  one  day,  as  I  prayed 

And  lingered  in  prayer, 

I  saw  in  the  air 

The  Cross,  and  Christ's  bleeding  Head. 

To  my  sad  seeming 

I  saw  the  red  blood  streaming 

From  under  the  thorny  crown. 

The  pellets  trickled  down 

Hot,  fresh,  and  plentiful  ; 

Yet,  flow  as  they  might, 

To  my  poor  sight, 

The  fair  face  of  Jesus  was  beautiful. 

Tears  I  wept,  of  joy  and  woe, 
To  see  the  dear  Head  so  fair, 
And  bleeding  so  ; 
But  this  was  my  only  prayer  ; 
I  said  " Benedicite" 


BENEDICITE  DOM  IN E.  211 

And  all  the  while  the  blood  did  flow 

I  said  "  Benedicite  Domine" 

And  could  not  stop. 

Like  beads  upon  a  rosary 

My  heart  did  count  each  drop, 

And  I  said  "  Benedicite." 

For  I  knew,  and  I  know, 

That  this  sad  show 

Was  a  showing  of  His  love  ;  and  so 

In  sad  simplicity 

To  the  Cross  that  hung  above  I  said, 

And  to  the  bleeding  Head, 

"  Benedicite  !  " 


n. 


I  looked  at  the  fair,  sad  face  again. 

Its  beauty  was  gone. 

The  ruddy  drops  had  gathered  upon 

A  visage  all  in  pain, 

Deathlike,  and  dark, 

And  marred  by  many  an  ugly  mark. 

Yea,  all  that  holy  Head 

Was  overspread 

With  a  changeful  light  and  shade. 

And  often,  to  my  view, 

The  bleeding  changed  in  quantity,  and  hue. 

Now  it  ran  quick  ; 

Now  slow,  and  dry,  and  thick. 

Now  it  was  living  red,  now  sallow. 

And  when,  on  one  side,  a  shadow  grew 

From  midface  to  the  ear, 

Then  a  bloody  flush  would  follow, 

As  suddenly  to  disappear. 

Thus  ever  the  color  came  and  went. 

Now  this  disfigurement 


212  THE  ROYAL  DEBTOR. 

I  greatly  sorrowed  to  see. 

I  marvelled  how  it  could  be. 

Scarce  had  I  strength  to  pray 

My  Benedicite. 

For  verily  I  say, 

And  do  believe,  and  ever  shall  maintain 

(Save  only  for  the  sorrow  and  pain 

Of  His  dying  day), 

So  fair  a  man  was  never  none 

Beneath  God's  golden  sun. 

But  this,  I  was  afterwards  made  to  see, 

Was  an  emblem  of  our  inconstancy  ; 

Yea,  the  foul  black  deeds  that  we  have  done, 

The  which  our  blessed  Lord  did  bear 

For  our  dear  love  on  Calvary, 

Unaided  and  alone 

Sustaining  there, 

Upon  His  single  back, 

A  burden  would  make  a  Heaven  black, 

And  all  but  a  God  despair. 

O  Jesu,  Benedicite  ! 


THE  ROYAL  DEBTOR. 


Behold  what  my  good  Lord 

•Once  said  ;  not  to  my  ear,  nor  stirred 

A  breath  of  air ;  but  by  an  inward  showing, 

A  secret  precious  interviewing 

Granted  betimes  in  prayer. 

•"  I  thank  thee  for  thy  patient  faith, 

And  for  .the  service  of  thy  youth." 

And  this  to  every  soul  He  saith 

That  worshippeth  in  earnest  truth. 


THE  ROYAL  DEBTOR.  213 

Now  methought  I  was  lifted  bodily 

Through  the  deep  air, 

Through  the  fair  blue  canopy 

To  the  calm  heights  of  Heaven  where 

The  Lord  our  God  doth  reign. 

Methought  He  had  gathered  there  and  then 

His  friends  to  a  solemn  feast. 

I  saw  Him  take  no  place,  no  seat ; 

But  as  often  happens  when  tenants  meet 

Their  Lord  at  his  own  behest, 

In  his  own  hall, 

Christ  lent  Himself  to  every  guest, 

Quick  answering  to  every  call, 

With  a  sweet  courtesy 

Most  ravishing  to  see, 

Yet  royally  reigning  over  all. 

God's  truth  !  fair  was  it  to  see  and  hear  ; 

And  ever  as  He  moved  along 

Amid  the  throng, 

He  spake  to  each  and  every  ear 

In  sweet  low  breath 

These  words  of  cheer  and  earnest  truth  : 

"  I  thank  thee  for  thy  patient  faith, 

And  for  the  service  of  thy  youth." 

II. 

Methought,  as  I  gazed  on  the  solemn  scene, 

That  all  the  service  had  ever  been, 

And  the  labor  of  all  living  men 

Might  not  deserve  such  thanks  as  then 

God  singly  gave  to  each  alone. 

Full  homely  then  was  it  made  plain, 

Right  sweetly  was  it  shown, 

That  the  age  of  every  man  is  known  ; 

And  a  full  record  of  his  years 


214  GAME  AND  EARNEST. 

Of  faithful  service  done  appears 

On  the  calendar  of  Heaven  ; 

Yea,  carefully  is  counted  even 

Each  footstep  on  the  road 

That  leadeth  him  to  God  ; 

He  getteth  pay  for  the  full  space 

Wherein  uplooking  to  the  overthrone 

Whence  cometh  needful  grace 

His  soul  in  charity  he  keepeth  ; 

Yea,  not  for  the  hours  of  day  alone, 

But  the  still  hours  when  he  sleepeth  ; 

And  for  every  prayer  he  saith, 

And  every  sigh  of  longing  breath 

To  Heaven  ascending. 

God  borroweth  of  our  poor  store  with  pleasure 

Yea,  giveth  thanks  to  us  for  lending. 

But  oh  !  He  payeth  beyond  measure  ; 

For  all  is  paid  from  an  infinite  treasure, 

A  love  which  is  unending. 

And  therefore  all  in  earnest  truth 
The  Master  saith  : 
"  Thanks  for  thy  patient  faith, 
And  for  the  service  of  thy  youth." 


GAME  AND  EARNEST. 


"  Herewith  the  Fiend  is  overcome." 
This  word  was  spoken  low  and  near ; 
How,  I  know  not,  not  to  my  ear  ; 
But  well  I  know  wherefrom. 
Nothing  I  saw.     Nothing  was  there 
In  all  my  chamber  anywhere, 


GAME  AND  EARNEST.  21$ 

Nothing  at  all, 

Save  only  my  bed  ; 

Save  only  the  Cross  that  hung  on  the  wall  ; 

Save  only  the  Christ  with  the  Bleeding  Head. 

Then  saw  I  the  eyes  of  Jesus  gleaming 

From  under  the  crown  of  thorn, 

And,  to  my  sight  and  seeming, 

They  glistened  with  scorn. 

And  methought  I  gleaned, 

From  His  scornful  air  and  under  talk, 

That  Our  Lord  was  making  mock 

Of  the  malice  of  the  Fiend.  , 

And  in  that  hour 

I  came  to  know, 

As  never  before,  the  power 

Of  Christ,  His  passion  over  the  foe. 

Ever  and  alway  the  foul  Fiend  burneth 

With  hatred  of  the  Cross. 

Ever  and  alway  Christ's  passion  turneth 

That  hate  to  his  own  dear  loss. 

Bitter  his  lot. 

Whether  he  work  or  he  work  not. 

Cometh  to  us  thereby  much  pain, 

But  yet  (Christ  helping)  sweeter  gain. 

Now  ever  yet,  when  I  recall 

That  Cross  and  Christ  upon  the  wall, 

My  spirit  boundeth  ; 

And  in  my  soul  still  soundeth 

That  word  which  broke  the  silence  of  my  room  : 

"  Herewith  the  Fiend  is  overcome." 

n. 

Now,  sooth  to  say  and  verily, 
When  I  saw  our  Lord  make  scorn 


2l6  GAME  AND  EARNEST. 

Of  the  Fiend  from  under  the  bleeding  thorn, 

I  laughed  right  merrily. 

Yea,  glad  would  I  have  been 

Had  all  my  even  Christian  seen 

What  then  I  saw,  and  laughed  with  me. 

In  truth,  Our  Lord  laughed  not, 

As  to  my  sight  ; 

But  well  I  wot 

That  He  mocked  at  the  foe 

His  malice  and  broken  might, 

And  the  overthrow 

Of  his  cruel  craft.     And  verily 

It  pleased  Him  when  I  laughed  so  merrily. 

Now  presently,  when  I  bethought 

That  Christ  laughed  not, 

I  fell  suddenly  sad  ;  and  I  said  : 

"  Woe  's  me  for  the  Bleeding  Head  ! 

Here  is  both  game  and  earnest. 

O  Christ  !  I  see  game 

In  the  shame 

Of  the  Fiend  whom  Thou  scornest, 

And  in  his  labor's  loss. 

But  ah  !  what  tongue  can  tell  the  price 

Of  that  sacrifice 

Which  gave  this  power  to  the  Cross  ? 

*T  is  easy  for  me  to  mock  the  Fiend, 

Who,  save  my  soul's  hurt  when  I  sinned, 

Bring  from  the  fight  no  scar  ; 

But  He  who  conquered  in  the  war, 

And  met  the  hazards  of  the  hour, 

Can  only  scorn  the  demon's  power 

From  a  bleeding  brow, 

And  a  Cross  of  woe." 


JOY  AND  PAIN.  217 


JOY  AND  PAIN. 


Two  tides  prevail  in  the  human  breast, 

And  they  make  or  mar  our  rest. 

The  fickle  currents  come  and  go 

With  alternating  ebb  and  flow  ; 

And,  fluctuating  to  and  fro, 

Now  pleased  we  ride 

On  a  full  flood-tide, 

Now  low  in  the  breakers  buffet. 

This  is  God's  gracious  dealing. 

Long  to  linger  in  one  feeling 

Brings  to  the  soul  no  profit ; 

But,  if  in  patience  we  abide 

And  do  God's  holy  will, 

Faileth  no  grace  ;  equally  well 

We  thrive  in  either  tide. 

But  yesterday  the  sky  was  bright. 
My  soul  was  all  illumed  with  light. 
"  Nothing  shall  part  me  from  thy  side," 
With  brave  St.  Paul  I  cried. 
And  now  again,  lost  in  the  night, 
And  sinking  in  the  wave, 
I  shout  with  Peter  terrified  : 
"  I  perish.     Jesus,  save  !  " 

n. 

Betimes  in  comfort,  whiles  all  comfort  gone  ; 
Betimes  to  feel  God's  helping  hand, 
And  whiles  all  desolate  to  stand 
And  struggle  on  alone. 


218  JOY  AND  PAIN. 

So  would  He  have  us  learn, 

Through  every  changeful  turn, 

To  live  by  faith,  not  feeling  ; 

In  weal  or  woe 

To  trust  His  holy  dealing  ; 

His  hand  to  know. 

For  His  hand  forever  guideth  us 

In  one  same  surety, 

And  the  great  Rock  that  hideth  us 

Is  full  security. 

Yea,  though  sometimes  in  sore  dejection, 
Trembling  like  one  in  dereliction, 
A  loving  soul  go  bending, 
It  may  not  be  for  punishment ; 
Happen  a  boon  from  Heaven  sent ; 
Happen  a  grace  which  love  is  lending. 
Betimes  the  pain  that  I  am  in 
Seems  all  too  sudden  to  be  for  sin  ; 
And  whiles  the  joy  that  floods  my  spirit 
Is  too  soon  gone  to  be  for  merit. 
In  joy  and  pain  one  hand  I  see  ; 
Forever  blessed  may  it  be  ! 
These  are  God's  kindly  dealings  ; 
And  it  shall  be  my  strong  endeavor, 
Yea,  firm  determination,  never 
To  yield  me  to  sad  feelings, 
But  rest  in  holy  comfort  ever. 

Oh  !  pain  is  passing,  measured,  tempered, 
To  them  that  be  of  God's  salvation. 
Cometh  a  bliss  unmeasured,  and  unhampered, 
And  endless  in  duration. 


LOVE'S  GREATEST  PAIN.  2 19 


LOVE'S  GREATEST  PAIN. 


Oh  !  't  was  a  heavy  passion  ! 

Oh  !  't  was  a  weary  pain  ; 

And,  though  I  saw  it  not 

Except  in  thought, 

Except  in  such  a  form  and  fashion 

As  things  are  painted  in  the  brain, 

I  would  not  dare, 

For  all  the  world  I  could  not  bear 

To  see  it  so  again. 

Said  I,  in  my  soul's  bitterness  : 

"  Is  hell  pain  more  than  this  ? " 

Quick  and  sharp  came  the  reply, 

To  my  reason  it  was  answered  :  "  Ay, 

For  there,  and  only  there, 

Grief  is  bottomed  in  despair." 

Yet,  of  all  the  pains  that  lead  to  bliss, 

The  pains  to  hearts  in  hope  which  offer, 

No  keener  woe  is  found  than  this — 

To  love,  and  see  love  suffer. 

Alas  !  I  saw  Him  on  the  Rood 

Down  bowing  ; 

Alas  !  I  saw  the  purple  flood 

Down  flowing  ; 

I  saw  in  His  fair  face  the  color 

Coming  and  going, 

And  alternating  with  deep  pallor. 

Oh  !  it  was  heart-rending  ! 

Life  and  death  I  saw  contending, 

As  wrestlers  put  forth  their  full  power, 

From  burning  noon  to  the  ninth  hour. 


22O  LOVE'S  GREATEST  PAIN. 

Christ  knows  if  that  keen  grief  of  mine 

Were  earth-born,  or  divine  ; 

Christ  knows  if  sacred  charity 

Gave  me  such  pain  ; 

But  methought  no  sorrow  could  come  to  me 

Ever  again, 

Like  the  sorrow  I  felt  then. 

Cometh  a  day  that  shall  disclose, 

Christ  knows, 

I  would  that  day  were  now  begun — 

Yea,  done. 

ii. 

Now,  when  the  sorrow  of  my  own  sad  heart 

Had  passed  in  part, 

I  thought  of  that  dear  innocent  dove 

Our  Lady  Mary,  who  stood  by  His  side 

When  He  was  crucified  ; 

All  through  that  burning  mid-day  clove 

So  fondly  to  His  side, — 

All  through  the  bitter  dying,  till  He  died. 

And  then  I  saw  more  plain 

How  the  greatness  of  Her  love 

Was  the  greatness  of  Her  pain. 

For,  in  kind,  Her  love  was  a  mother's  ; 

But  it  passed  all  mothers'  in  degree. 

Ah  then,  how  could  it  be 

Her  grief  should  not  surpass  all  others  ? 

Dear  Lady,  I  in  sorrow 

Do  pity  Thy  love's  great  agony  ; 

Yea,  fain  would  my  poor  bosom  borrow, 

If  so  it  might,  more  love  from  Thee. 


IN  CHRIST'S  PASSION  ALL  SUFFER.     221 


HOW  IN  CHRIST'S  PASSION  ALL  SUFFER. 


When  the  Lord  Christ  was  slain 

Upon  the  Cross  of  Calvary, 

All  creatures  suffered  in  His  pain. 

Each  in  its  kind,  and  in  its  own  degree, 

Had  feeling  then 

As  of  some  fearful  drain 

Of  vital  force, 

Of  life  subsiding  at  life's  source. 

Needs  must  be  some  such  sympathy 

Between  the  creature  and  the  Deity. 

Knoweth  itself  the  blind  stone 

And  clingeth  to  itself  alone. 

Against  all  other  unions  it  rebelleth, 

Attraction  scorneth,  force  repelleth, 

Yet,  by  what  sense  it  loveth,  and  feareth, 

By  that  same  sense,  and  in  like  measure, 

It  knoweth  the  mighty  divine  pressure, 

By  which  its  own  low  life  cohereth. 

Well,  then,  what  wonder 

That  solid  rocks  should  sunder 

When  Christ  was  slain  ! 

All  Nature,  with  a  common  heart, 

Took  common  part 

In  the  common  pain. 

His  friends  all  suffered  then  and  there  ; 

And  all  that  love  Him  now  must  bear 

His  Cross  and  thorny  Crown. 

These  are  not  His  alone  ; 

They  are  our  own. 


222     IN  CHRIST'S  PASSION  ALL  SUFFER. 
II. 

All  suffered  when  the  Saviour  died. 

The  spring  of  every  comfort  failed, 

All  human  joy  had  turned  to  weeping, 

And  one  drear  midnight  had  prevailed 

Save  for  that  mighty  secret  keeping 

Which  God  for  the  time  supplied. 

All  suffered  then  ;  yea,  well  I  wot, 

Both  they  that  knew  Him,  and  that  knew  Him  not. 

Beneath  the  Rood, 

Hardened  to  suffering  and  blood, 

A  sentry  soldier,  on  his  beat, 

Paced  back  and  forth  with  haughty  stride  ; 

But  when  the  earth  shook  beneath  his  feet, 

With  altered  mien  and  chastened  mood, 

Humbled  to  worshipping  he  cried  ; 

"  Sure  this  was  the  Son  of  God  !  " 

And  we  that  are  not  pagan,  nor  infidel, 

But  know  Him  well, 

With  all  that  marvellous  history 

Of  birth,  and  youth,  and  life,  and  teaching, 

By  faith  of  Holy  Church  and  her  true  preaching, 

And  the  deep  mystery 

Of  penance,  and  each  sacrament  of  grace  ; 

And  hope  ere  while  to  see  His  face 

On  some  sweet  blissful  morrow, 

Oh  say  ! 

Shall  we  not  weep  to-day  ? 

Not  one  sore  pang  from  His  deep  Passion  borrow  ? 

From  His  full  heart 

Not  one  keen  quivering  dart, 

To  make  up  our  poor  part  ? 

Shall  He  hang  thus  in  solitary  pain, 

While  cold  and  placid  we  remain, 


IN  CHRIST'S  PASSION  ALL  SUFFER.     22$ 

Though  rocks  are  rent  in  twain, 

And  skies 

Close  their  bright  eyes  ? 

While  robbers  pray, 

And  pagan  kneel, 

Are  we  less  quick  than  they 

To  think,  and  feel  ? 


GRADUS  AD  TRINITATEM. 

A  SERIES  OF 

MEDITATIONS 

ON    THE    INNER    LIFE    OF    GOD. 


225 


GRADUS  AD  TRINITATEM, 


MEDITATIONS  ON   THE  INNER  LIFE 
OF  GOD. 


The  verses  which  follow,  grouped  under  the 
above  heading,  not  only  constitute  a  series  of 
meditations,  but  are  so  constructed  and  graduated 
as  to  present  an  argument  for  the  doctrine  of  the 
Holy  Trinity.  Although  the  words  of  Sacred 
Scripture  are  sometimes  used,  for  the  benefit  of 
those  who  meditate,  no  appeal  is  intended  to  the 
authority  of  Revelation.  The  argument  is  simply 
and  purely  one  of  analogy,  reasoning  from  the  in 
telligent  though  finite  soul  as  we  find  it  existing  in 
Man,  to  that  infinite  Spirit  which  we  name  God. 
The  poems  lead  us  forward  and  upward  by  degrees, 
or  Steps,  which  are  explanations  of  certain  philo 
sophical  truths,  without  a  correct  understanding  of 
which  no  one  is  competent  to  discuss  the  subject, 
or  meditate  upon  it. 

By  reading  each  STEP  carefully  and  keeping  the 
whole  series  in  mind  when  completed,  the  reader 
will  have  a  very  condensed  but  complete  argument, 
affording  a  rational  basis  for  the  great  doctrine 
which  lies  at  the  foundation  of  the  Christian  faith, 
227 


228  GRADUS  AD    TRINITATEM. 

Religion  cannot  part  from  this  doctrine  without 
ceasing  to  be  Christianity. 

Each  Step  carries  the  mind  onward  toward  the 
grand  conclusion,  that  the  life  of  God  consists  of 
the  simultaneous  action  of  three  distinct  personages 
dwelling  together  in  the  unity  of  one  same  being. 

The  course  of  argument  stated  in  prose  is  sub 
stantially  as  follows  : 

That  the  unity  of  God  is  not  abstract  but  con 
crete  ;  in  other  words,  that  it  is  m.ade  up  of  essen 
tial  elements  which  constitute  the  fulness  of  the 
divine  life.  That  God  is  necessarily  a  being  of 
infinite  activity.  That  the  interior  working  of  His 
life  is  not,  however,  like  ours — a  succession  of  acts, 
but  one  eternal  and  simultaneous  act.  That,  in 
the  same  way  that  THOUGHT  and  WILL  are  the 
elements  of  action  in  the  soul  of  man,  so  also  in 
thought  and  will  we  must  expect  to  find  the  ele 
mentary  action  of  divine  life  in  God.  That,  in 
both  God  and  man,  thought  is  an  inward  WORD 
spoken  by  the  mind  to  itself  alone,  and  remaining 
with  the  speaker,  distinct  but  not  disunited.  That, 
in  man,  this  distinction  between  thought  and  the 
mind  which  gives  it  birth  is  imperfect ;  but,  in 
God,  thought,  or  the  inborn  Word,  being  like  the 
parent  intellect  perfect  and  infinite,  rises  to  the 
full  dignity  of  a  distinct  personality  ;  and  thus  the 
Son  is  equal  in  all  respects  to  the  Father.  And, 
lastly,  that  these  two  august  Persons,  so  infinite  in 
grandeur,  goodness,  and  beauty,  and  dwelling  thus 
together  face  to  face  in  the  intimacy  of  one  divine 
life,  necessitates  the  origin  of  a  mutual  divine 
Love,  proceeding  from  both,  infinite  like  both,  and 
distinct  from  either.  This  is  the  Holy  Ghost,  last 
of  the  Three  only  in  the  order  of  logic,  but,  in  liv 
ing  reality,  co-infinite  and  co-eternal  with  the  Father 
and  the  Son. 


THE    UNITY  OF  GOD.  2  29 


THE  UNITY  OF  GOD. 


When  I  say  God  is  one — one  what  ? 

One  and  no  more  ?     An  abstract  thought  ? 

An  useful  summary  of  all  we  know, 

Or  all  that  thought  can  reach  unto  ? 

The  Pantheist's  all  ?     Creation's  whole  ? 

Nature's  blind  instinct  ?     The  world  Soul  ? 

Oh,  no  !  I  mean  the  living  God 

That  really  is,  that  lives,  that  moves, 

That  acts,  and  thinks,  and  wills,  and  loves, 

And  rules  all  being  with  a  nod  ; 

Holding  His  own  life  free  • 

Asking  no  leave  to  be  ; 

In  His  own  self  a  wealth  of  being  ; 

A  sum  of  infinite  contents  ; 

A  total  of  constituents 

In  one  grand  life  agreeing  ; 

All  infinite,  all  reaching  forth  as  far 

As  the  great  life  whose  components  they  are. 

n. 

If  God  were  simply  unity 

Embracing  no  plurality, 

His  being  would  be  a  wilderness. 

Where  then  would  be  His  loveliness  ? 

Beauty  from  graceful  order  springs  ; 

But  order  is  the  due  relation 

Of  things  to  things. 

What  's  a  life  circle  without  inner  rings  ? 

God  is  no  abstract  thing.     He  is  concrete. 

Relations  multiplex  in  Him  unite 

In  order,  Heaven's  first  law,  and  thus  complete 

A  beauty  various,  august,  infinite. 


230  THE  ACTIVE  LIFE   OF  GOD. 

God  is  a  thoughtful,  conscious  King, 
Knowing  Himself,  with  far  more  light 
Reflected  on  that  inward  sight 
Than  all  the  skies  on  science  fling, 
Though  age  on  age  accumulate  the  offering. 


THE  ACTIVE  LIFE  OF  GOD. 


Action  is  a  being's  breath. 

Life  lives  by  its  own  unrest. 

Beats  the  quick  heart  ;  heaves  the  warm  breast  ; 

Stillness  is  the  state  of  death. 

Whatever  lives  must  needs  be  stirring  ; 

Action  is  law  for  all  the  living. 

To  be  evermore  begetting,  bearing, 

Increase  of  itself  outgiving, 

Product  of  its  activity, 

Fruit  born  to  its  fecundity, 

Is  the  sole  sign  to  one  and  all 

That  a  living  thing  hath  life  at  all. 

"  Speak  !  "  Angelo  said,  and  struck  the  stone. 

The  marble  Prophet  responded  naught. 

No  soul  was  there  to  yield  a  thought  ; 

No  life  to  give  a  groan. 

Shall  reason  reduce  to  marble  death 

The  Lord  of  life,  the  King  of  breath  ? 

Who  therefore  thinks  of  God  as  still 

Is  either  deeply  ignorant,  or  infidel. 

Ah  !  since  through  nature  the  law  holds  good  ; 

Since  life  must  needs  have  work  to  do  ; 

What  force  majestic  must  move  through 

The  ever  heaving  Soul  of  God  ! 


GOD'S  LIFE-MOVEMENT  ONE  ACT.      231 

II. 

This  is  the  law  of  fecundity  : 

Be  it  little,  or  be  it  great, 

Productive  life  must  generate 

In  the  measure  of  its  activity. 

No  less  result  can  satisfy 

The  cravings  of  its  state. 

The  world  therefore  is  a  thing  too  small 

To  occupy  God's  mind,  and  fill  it  all. 

God  is  infinite  Life  in  motion  ; 

One  infinite  wave  swells  an  infinite  ocean. 

His  mind  is  a  measureless  womb  ; 

And  the  only  adequate  issue  therefrom 

Is  a  thought,  an  inward  Word,  a  birth 

Vast  as  the  source  which  gives  it  forth  ; 

A  Child  (like  the  parent)  divine, 

In  whom  the  same  attributes  combine  ; 

The  Father's  image  and  delight, 

And,  like  Himself,  all  infinite. 

O  Christ  !  herein  I  name  Thee. 

Thou  first,  and  last,  and  only  Word 

In  that  divine  life  circle  heard, 

Hereby  I  claim  Thee. 

And,  though  unguided  on  the  road 

My  untaught  intellect 

The  wondrous  truth  would  scarce  suspect, 

Yet,  light  once  given,  I  know  my  God. 


THE  WHOLE  LIFE-MOVEMENT  OF  GOD  IS 
BUT  ONE  ACT. 

i. 

Say  !  when  did  Heaven's  high  history  begin  ? 
What  field  were  God's  first  mighty  steppings  in  ? 


232      GOD'S  LIFE-MOVEMENT  ONE  ACT. 

Ere  the  first  angel  flew,  the  first  light  shone, 

Ere  stars  in  clusters  budded,  suns  into  disks  were 

blown  ; 
Ere   on    their   poles    they    span,   into  their   orbits 

whirled  ; 

What  was  God  doing  ere  He  made  the  world  ? 
How  did  grand  thought,  born   in  the   boundless 

past, 

Rouse  the  pulsations  of  a  soul  so  vast  ? 
We  know  how  this  our  lower  world  goes  on. 
Man's  life  is  measured  by  successive  acts  ; 
Coming  events  supplant  the  finished  facts  ; 
New  thoughts  and  new  desires  the  old  dethrone. 
How  was  it  when  God  lived  alone  ? 
Is  that  majestic  life  thus  marked  by  tracks  ? 

Methinks  far  other  should  that  movement  be, 
Where  the  moving  wave  is  soundless  ; 
Where  the  power  to  move  is  boundless. 
There  a  breath  should  supply  eternity  ; 
There  reason  should  have  so  vast  a  reign 
That  Thought,  forth  issuing  from  her  throne, 
Exhausting  all  that  can  be  known, 
Should  leave  no  need  to  think  again. 
There  going  and  return  should  meet 
Upon  an  endless  track  ; 
The  past  lie  forward,  and  the  future  back  ; 
And  one  pure  Act  make  life  complete. 

n. 

'T  is  time  marks  life  by  ever  changing  scenes. 
In  the  eternal  world  nothing  begins, 
Naught  ends.     This  episode  of  time  and  space 
Far  underneath  God's  inner  life  takes  place. 
God  is  eternal,  does  not  live  in  time. 


THE  ELEMENTS  OF  DIVINE  ACTION.    233 

'T  is  only  finite  creatures,  such  as  men, 

That  think,  and  rally  thought  to  think  again  ; 

That  step  by  step  to  new  conclusions  climb  ; 

That  leave  behind  the  embers  of  old  fires. 

And  with  new  fuel  kindle  new  desires. 

God's  first  life-step  is  all  one  with  His  last  ; 

His  first  breath  still  remains  unspent ; 

His  changeless  mind  is  still  intent 

On  the  same  thought  that  wrought  there  in  the 

past. 

In  God's  far  future  dawns  the  early  morn 
When  Word  divine  to  life  divine  was  born  ; 
When,  by  one  motion,  Thought  eternal  came, 
And  co-eternal  Love  broke  into  flame. 
What  was,  and  is,  and  is  to  be, 
Are  vain  distinctions  in  eternity. 
The  present  there  with  past  and  future  dwells 
All  parallel,  and  interwreathing  ; 
One  long  exhaustless  breath  fills  the  life  cells, 
And  needs  no  second  breathing. 


THOUGHT  AND  WILL  THE  CONSTITUENT 
ELEMENTS  OF  DIVINE  ACTION. 

i. 

God  knows  His  creatures  ;  but  He  needs  them  not. 
By  Him  we  live  and  move  ;  yet  share  no  part 
In  that  great  tide  of  life  which  floods  His  heart. 
Its  bosom  bears  us,  but  outside  we  float. 
We  cannot  see  God  ;  little  of  Him  we  know. 
Mere  glowworms  of  the  dark,  we  grope  below, 
Holding  dim  torches  to  the  paths  of  night, 
And  in  its  shadows  seek  for  higher  light. 
Yet  are  we  in  our  Maker's  image  made, 


234    THE  ELEMENTS  OF  DIVINE  ACTION. 

Faint  and  imperfect  though  the  copies  show  ; 
And  something  of  the  great  Original  may  know 
By  study  of  His  traits  in  us  portrayed. 

THOUGHT,  WILL  ;  behold  in  these  the  two  life-wings 

Whereby  a  spirit  into  action  springs  ! 

From  these  two  motors  therefore  rise  and  meet 

Those  life  relations  which  God's  unity  complete. 

Help,  Lord,  our  feeble  minds  to  scrutinize 

The  mystic  streams  which  flood  Thine  arteries, 

And  blend  their  currents  in  one  life  concrete  ! 

II. 

God    knows    Himself.      With    this    high   wisdom 

fraught, 

His  mind  grasps  all  that  being  has  to  show. 
Nothing  but  pale  reflections  glow 
Outside  that  primal  horizon  of  thought. 
God  clings  to  His  own  being  ;  and  herein 
Lies  hid  a  joy  unclouded  and  serene. 
God  looks,  desires.     That  motion  all  in-moving, 
Act  duplicate  of  seeing  and  of  loving, 
Alone  can  satisfy  the  measureless  behest 
Of  His  all-searching  eye,  all-craving  breast. 
Man  must  first  look,  then  love.     Love  follows  sight. 
That  which  is  first  in  order  must  be  first  in  time. 
It  is  not  so  in  that  vast  Soul  sublime 
Where  all  is  co-eternal,  infinite. 
God  looks  and  loves  ;  quick  thought  finds  thought's 

ideal 

Beaming  with  beauty  in  the  true  and  real, 
Deep  mirrored  in  His  own  self-consciousness. 
Thus  gazing  on  the  wealth  of  His  own  loveliness, 
His  vision  kindles  into  infinite  desire  ; 
And  in  the  flame  of  that  exhaustless  fire 
Is  seated  God's  eternal  happiness. 


CHARACTER  OF  DIVINE  THOUGHT.      2$$ 


THE    CHARACTER    OF    A    DIVINE 
THOUGHT. 

i. 

Say  !  tell  me,  what  is  thought  ?     First,  thought  in 

man  ? 

It  is  an  inward,  inborn  word, 
To  the  speaker  spoken,  by  him  only  heard, 
And  resting  where  its  life  began. 
'T  is  said.  'T  is  born.  It  lives,  for  good  or  ill. 
And  yet  no  curious  ear  outside  can  reach 
The  accents  of  that  cloistered  speech  ; 
The  letters  of  that  word  no  eye  can  spell. 

So  thought  in  God  is  a  word  divine, 
Deep  spoken  in  that  Soul's  far  centre, 
Vibrating  mighty  sound,  and  yet  so  fine 
That,  should  the  detonations  enter 
And  thunder  in  an  angel's  ear, 
Unconscious  of  the  flood,  he  could  not  hear. 
What  !  could  he  touch  life  infinite  alive  ? 
Could  his  dull  senses  pierce  the  eternal  seals  ? 
Could  his  slow  vision  follow  the  turn  of  the  wheels 
Where  the  genius  of  God  doth  drive  ? 

ii. 

Man  thinks  ;  God  thinks.     Yet  mark   the  differ 
ence. 

God's  inner  Word  is  perfect  and  unbroken  ; 
Says  all  that  can  be  thought  or  spoken 
In  one  eternal  present  utterance. 
It  cannot  have,  and  needs  not,  repetition. 
It  takes  in  all,  leaves  room  for  no  addition  ; 
Large  as  the  Mind  whence  it  doth  emanate, 


236       MIND  AND    THOUGHT  DISTINCT 

And  with  that  Mind's  long  life  commensurate. 
It  must  be  so,  O  infinite  eternal  Soul  ! 
For  all  in  substance  is  the  same  in  Thee  ; 
And  aught  that  praise  can  name  in  Thee 
Is  equal  to  the  all-circling  whole. 


MIND  AND  THOUGHT  DISTINCT  IN  ONE 
LIFE. 

i. 

Is  thought  distinct  from  that  which  thinks  ? 
Yea,  surely  ;  when  I  name  the  one 
I  do  not  mean  the  other.     Each  is  known 
By  lineaments  of  its  own.     Yet  both  are  links 
Of  one  same  life,  and  cannot  live  alone. 
Substantially,  essentially,  the  two  are  one. 
So  mind  and  thought  exist  in  reasoning  man. 
And  so  in  God  where  mind  and  thought  began. 

A  thought  is  born  ;  an  inward  word  is  spoken. 

The  silence  of  one  soul  alone  is  broken. 

In  that  life-circle  where  it  first  found  birth, 

There  it  abideth. 

Shut  from  the  outside  world  at  home  it  hideth  ; 

A  truant  from  that  fold  goeth  not  forth. 

There  face  to  face  each  eyeth  either, 

The  ghostly  breath,  and  the  thoughtful  breather. 

Mind  measures  the  offspring  it  begot, 

And  in  turn  is  canvassed  by  its  thought. 

Subjective  sight,  and  object  seen, 

Freely  change  place  behind  the  screen. 

Thus,  face  to  face  in  loving  unison, 

Distinguishable  always,  always  one, 

At  the  domestic  hearth  sit  sire  and  son. 

So  ever  life  intelligent  goes  on. 


IN  ONE  LIFE.  237 

Can  it  seem  strange  that  a  like  spirit-wonder 
Should  underlie  God's  life,  since  ours  it  lieth  under  ? 


ii. 


In  man  distinction  between  mind  and  thought 

Is  incomplete,  is  an  imperfect  one. 

Thought  has  in  us  no  self-subsistence  of  its  own, 

Is  always  partial  and  dependent.     It  derives 

Outside  itself  the  power  by  which  it  lives. 

Uprising  like  a  mirage  from  the  sand, 

It  fades  soon  back  into  the  parent  land. 

One  man  is  never  a  community  ; 

Never  to  full  perfection  can  he  bring 

Within  the  compass  of  his  little  ring 

The  mystery  of  plural  life  in  unity. 

Not  so  in  God.     His  wondrous  life  goes  on 

All   spent   within    Himself.     In    Him   the   eternal 

year 

Is  rounded  by  a  thought  that  fills  its  sphere, 
And  finds  there  all  it  needs  to  feed  upon. 
God's  Thought  is  full  ;  has  life  in  its  totality  ; 
Lacks   naught ;  can    see,    hear,    feel,    and    freely 

move  ; 

Can  think,  desire,  appropriate,  and  love, 
And  rises  therefore  to  a  perfect  personality. 

God  thus  is  truly  several  and  one  ; 
A  royal  Family  upon  a  single  throne  ; 
A  full  community  that  lives  alone. 
Contemplating  His  own  image,  God  can  say, 
With  all  a  Father's  pride,  that  joyous  Word 
Which  David,  rapt  in  inspiration,  heard  : 
"  My  Son  !  I  have  begotten  Thee  to-day." 
To-day  ;  a  day  which  has  no  morn,  no  close  ; 
That  hourless  day  which  changeless  Being  knows. 


238  THE    GENESIS  OF  LOVE. 


THE   GENESIS  OF    LOVE  ;  OR,   THE  PRO 
CESSION  OF  THE  HOLY  GHOST. 


The  birth  of  thought  is  life,  but  not  life's  whole. 
'T  is  not  the  term  where  living  rests  complete. 
A  twofold  action  in  one  soul  must  meet ; 
And  this  united  movement  makes  life  full. 

Mind  thinks.    Then  quick  a  second  motion  springs. 
Will  follows  thought ;  desire  takes  flame  from  sight ; 
The  eager  soul  expands  in  the  warm  light. 
Life  always  flies  upon  these  twofold  wings. 

Thought  is  an  outlook  of  the  spirit  moved 
By  thirst  for  truth,  which  to  herself  she  draweth  ; 
But  love,  a  voluntary  exile,  out-doors  goeth 
To  lose  her  life  in  that  of  the  beloved. 

Love  springs  from  mind,  the  pensive  soul's  desire. 
Love  also  is  the  product  of  the  thought, 
By  which  to  the  loved  object  mind  is  brought 
And  introduced.     Two  breaths  light  one  same  fire. 

Behold  a  wonder  !     Here  is  more  than  one. 

Love    is    distinct    from    mind,    and    both    from 

thought ; 

Yet  all  in  one  same  life  are  interwrought. 
Another  wonder  !     Lo,  here  one  alone. 

Thus,  in  the  creature  typified,  we  find 
The  mystery  of  relations, — life  made  full 
By  threefold  unity  ;  grouped  in  one  soul 
Thought,  Will,  and  Memory  or  abiding  Mind. 


CIRCUMINCESSION.  239 

II. 

Lift  now  adoring  eyes  to  that  high  path 

Where,  wrapped  in  mystery,  walking  in  wealth  of 

light 

Which  radiates  inward  ;  hid  to  all  outer  sight, 
But   gleaming   to    His  own,    God  draws   celestial 

breath. 

There  face  to  face  stand  co-eternal  Son  and  Sire. 
The  primal  Mind,  and  first-born  Science  gaze 
Into  each  other's  eyes  ;  and  from  the  rays 
Comes  forth  an  august  Form  in  robes  of  fire, 

Primordial  Love.     Thus  born  to  sight  reciprocal, 
A  third  term  of  relation  standeth  out 
In  sure  relief  ;  is  infinite  ;  lacks  naught 
That  life  can  have  to  make  life  personal. 

Hail !  holy  Charity,  love's  throb  in  Wisdom's  breast ! 
Ranged  last  in  order  of  the  sacred  Three, 
Yet  ancient  as  the  oldest  in  Thy  family, 
And  with  one  rule  co-reigning  with  the  rest. 

Lo,  closed  complete  the  cycle  of  fecundity  ! 
The  Son  exhausts  divine  intelligence, 
The  Holy  Ghost  divine  benevolence, 
And  life  divine  is  perfect  in  the  Trinity. 


CIRCUMINCESSION. 


O  depth  of  mystery  !     How  doth  the  Father  dwell 

Forever  in  the  Person  of  the  Son  ? 

How  doth  the  Son  with  Him  share  that  life  cell 


240  CIRCUMINCESSION. 

Where  His  own  princely  being  was  begun  ? 
How,  close  embracing  and  embraced  by  both, 
Doth  Love  eternal,  primal,  infinite  outgrowth 
Of  These,  live  in  each  life,  and  hold  each  in  His 

own  ? 

'T  is    so.     Breath    with    breath    breathing,    inter 
crossed, 

Not  merged,  not  lost,  Sire,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost 
Their  everlasting  cycle  of  existence  run. 
This  truth  I  hold.     I  know  it  well ! 
But  how  't  is  so  I  cannot  tell. 

ii. 

Joint  tenants  of  Their  vast  freehold, 
Shareholders  in  a  being  one  but  multifold, 
Co-currents  of  the  same  almighty  wave, 
Each  ranging  in  the  depth  of  Each  doth  lave. 
Backward  and  forth,  and  through  and  through, 
With  full,  free  interchange  of  interpenetration, 
With  an  exhaustless,  simultaneous  flow, 
Rolls  triple  life  through  the  great  Oversoul. 
O  wealth  of  action,  motion,  beauty,  variation  ! 
O  unity  of  wisdom,  power,  and  plan  in  concentra 
tion  ! 

O  lavish  Godhead,  spending  all  at  once  its  whole 
Of  breath,  yet  losing  naught  by  the  deep  respira 
tion  ! 

in. 

Oh,  could  my  proud  ambition  but  prevail ! 
Oh,  could  I  hope  to  lift  some  day  the  veil 
Which  shrouds  that  cycle  where  the  mystic  Three 
In  beauty,  love,  and  joy  pass  Their  eternity  ! 
Doth  not  the  vision  promised  God's  elect 
Reach  forth  so  far  ?     Will  not  some  sense,  direct 


THE  HOMESTEAD  OF  THE    TRINITY.     241 

Or  indirect,  some  gift  of  supreme  grace, 
Some  Heaven-printed  pass  be  given  (perhaps  to  me) 
To  enter  that  charmed  cloister  of  the  Trinity, 
And  look  and  gaze  on  Each  as  on  familiar  face  ? 


THE  HOMESTEAD  OF  THE  TRINITY. 


There  is  a  home  older  than  oldest  history  ; 

Primordial  residence  of  sequestered  lives. 

Eye  never  gazed  into  its  deep  archives  ; 

Time  never  chronicled  its  years  of  mystery. 

No  sounds  vibrate  along  that  sacred  air 

Save  native  voices  and  footfalls  familiar  there. 

Sufficient  to  itself  life  there  has  no  new  wants  ; 

Old  thought  is  fresh,  old  beauty  still  enchants. 

There  filial  piety,  and  fond  parental  pride 

Lock  hand  in  hand,  sit  side  by  side  ; 

And,  nestling  close,  sweet  charity  doth  rest 

Her  head  with  confidence  on  either  breast. 

There  Mind,  and  Thought,  and  Heart  divine  do  meet 

In  converse  holy,  high,  and  passing  sweet. 

Truth  utters  all  its  wealth  in  wisdom's  ear  ; 

Eternity  doth  speak,  eternity  doth  hear. 

Life,  wisdom,  love,  and  joy  are  all  complete. 

So  clusters  life  supreme  in  social  cheer. 
So  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost  abide, 
A  family  of  Three,  their  lives  inwreathing 
In  one  enraptured  and  eternal  breathing. 

How  bold  to  stammer  thus,  thought  dazed,  tongue 

tied, 

Trying  to  tell  how  Heaven's  chambers  glow, 
Since  all  I  give  I  glean  by  this  dim  light  below  ! 


242       LOVE  DEALING    WITH  MYSTERY. 

II. 

To  faith  is  given  firmly  to  believe 

And  take  delight  in  many  things 

Which  weaker  reason  struggles  to  conceive. 

What  art  can  sketch  that  conference  of  Kings  ; 

In  colors  draw  that  transport  of  dilection, 

That  inundating  tumult  of  affection 

With  which  the  Eternal  Father  flings 

Fond  arms  about  His  only  Son  ; 

While  God  the  Son  with  burning  lips  still  wrings 

Fresh  life  from  lips  whose  speech  that  life  begun  ? 

What  is  it  from  each  panting  bosom  springs  ? 

Is  it  a  Tongue  cleft  into  wings  of  fire  ? 

Is  it  a  Dove  with  eyes  of  red  desire  ? 

Is  it  a  loving  Breath  escaping  from  the  Two, 

And  in  the  breathing  braided  to  life  anew  ; 

Claiming  an  equal  age,  and  sudden  growth 

To  dignity  with  Either,  and  with  Both  ? 

I  dare  no  more  enquire  :  I  fear  to  think  ; 

So  low  my  wretched  fancies  sink 

Beneath  that  high  and  holy  dome, 

That  glowing  hearth,  that  golden  home. 

I  know  but  this  : 

In  that  mysterious  Family  above 

Reigns  lofty  converse,  sweet  domestic  love, 

And  bliss,  immeasurable  bliss. 


LOVE  DEALING  WITH  MYSTERY. 


An  ancient  Sage  stood  by  the  ocean  shore 

And  gazed  into  the  ever-heaving  deep. 

He  watched  its  wayward  tide  that  knows  no  sleep  ; 

That  swells,  and  falls,  and  swelling  as  before 

Goes  breathing,  breathing  on  forevermore. 


LOVE  DEALING   WITH  MYSTERY.       243 

In  vain  he  tried  the  mystery  to  trace, 
The  secret  of  that  panting  life  unlock. 
Bowling  its  waves  against  the  rugged  rock, 
And  breaking  up  in  myriad  jets  of  grace, 
It  flung  contemptuous  spray  into  his  face. 

Her  seat  bewildered  reason  failed  to  keep  ; 
Despair  stepped  in  to  take  the  place  of  pride. 
"  Euripus,  since  I  cannot  grasp  thy  life,"  he  cried, 
"  Take  all  of  mine  !  "     Then,  with  a  frantic  leap, 
He  cast  himself  into  the  heedless  deep. 

Oh,  happy  !  if  like  him,  dear  Trinity, 
Not  out  of  baffled  pride,  not  in  despair, 
But,  for  the  hope  I  feel,  the  love  I  bear, 
Casting  myself  into  Thy  deeper  sea, 
I,  too,  could  bury  all  life  has  of  me  ! 

n. 

What  is  infinity  ?     God's  instantaneous  and  entire 
Possession  of  a  life  that  knows  no  morn,  no  eve. 
Mind   fails   to   grasp   this   firmly,  though  it  may 

conceive. 
What    matter !      Over-curious    thought    descend, 

retire  ! 
But  thou,  O  trustful  love,  take  heart !     Go  higher  ! 

Grand  fount  of  triune  life,  lo  !  God  the  Sire  ! 

What  this  implies  I  cannot  fully  tell. 

Yet  this  much  I  do  know,  yea,  know  it  well — 

I  also  am  His  child.     Lord  !  feed  the  sweet  desire 

I  feel  to  draw  near  Thee, — nigher,  still  nigher  ! 

O  Son  of  God  !  how  fathom  Thy  deep  genesis  ! 
Then  let  it  pass  !     Enough  for  me  to  know 


244       LOVE  DEALING  WITH   MYSTERY. 

What  brought  Thee,  Saviour,  to  this  world  of  woe. 
Be  mine  to  weep,  and  follow  each  dear  trace 
Of  blood.     Be  satisfied,  my  soul,  with  this  ! 

Spirit  of  God  !     Heaven's  gentle  mighty  breath, 

I  comprehend  Thee  not  :  I  can  but  name  Thee. 

Yet  every  pulse  of  prayer  and  praise  doth  claim 
Thee. 

Mine  are  the  Sacraments  :  Thou  stirrest  under 
neath. 

Life — Love — live,  love  in  Thee.     All  less  is  death. 


THE    END. 


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